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onore  tre  Balzac 


onovt  tie  ^al^ac 

PRIVATE   LIFE 


VOLUME  I 


LIMITED    TO   ONE    THOUSAND   COMPLETE   COPIES 


NO.    -I 


^    l^ 


yit!fiy*,^ir.ti  /SU  >V  -^  -^^  **   '^' 


M.   GUILLAUME  AND    THEODORE 


But,  at  this  moment,  the  old  draper  paid,  no 
attention  to  his  apprentices ;  he  zvas  biisily  study- 
ing the  motive  of  the  anxiety  with  which  the  yoimg 
man  in  the  cloak  and  silk  socks  alternately  sur- 
veyed his  signboard  and  the  recesses  of  his  shop. 


THE  NOVELS 


OF 


HONORE  DE  BALZAC 


NOW   FOR   THE    FIRST   TIME 
COMPLETELY   TRANSLATED    INTO    ENGLISH 


THE  HOUSE   OF  THE   CAT  AND  RACKET 
THE  DANCE  A  T  SCEA  UX 
THE  PURSE 
THE    VENDETTA 

BY  MAY  TOMLINSON 


WITH    FIVE     ETCHINGS    BY     LEON     LAMBERT,    XAVIER    LE 

SUEUR    AND     RICARDO    DE    LOS    RIOS,    AFTER 

DRAWINGS    BY    EDOUARD   TOUDOUZE 


IN.  ONE  VOLUME 


PRINTED  ONLY  FOR  SUBSCRIBERS  BY 

GEORGE   BARRIE   &   SON,   PHILADELPHIA 


COPYRIGHTED,    1896,   BY  G.   B.   &   SON 


P9 

o 


THE 
HOUSE  OF  THE  CAT  AND  RACKET 


189936 


TO  MADEMOISELLE  MARIE  DE  MONTHEAU 


(3) 


THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  CAT  AND  RACKET 


* 


In  the  middle  of  Rue  Saint-Denis,  almost  at  the 
corner  of  Rue  du  Petit-Lion,  there  existed  but 
lately,  one  of  those  houses  so  valuable  to  the  his- 
torian, in  facilitating  his  task  of  reconstructing 
ancient  Paris  by  analogy. 

The  tottering  walls  of  this  dilapidated  house 
seemed  to  have  been  checkered  with  hieroglyphics. 
What  better  name  could  the  chance  observer  give  to 
the  X  and  V,  traced  upon  the  facade  by  transversal 
or  diagonal  pieces  of  wood,  indicated  in  the  white- 
wash by  narrow  parallel  crevices? 

The  lightest  carriage  in  passing  by  evidently 
shook  every  rafter  in  its  mortice. 

This  venerable  edifice  was  surmounted  by  a  tri- 
angular roof  whose  like  will  soon  become  extinct  in 
Paris.  Distorted  by  the  inclemency  of  the  Parisian 
climate  this  roof  projected  three  feet  over  the  road, 
as  much  to  screen  the  threshold  of  the  door  from 
rain  as  to  shelter  the  wall  of  an  attic,  and  its  window 
without  a  sill.  This  last  story  was  built  of  planks 
nailed  one  over  the  other  like  slates,  doubtless  to 
prevent  the  overburdening  of  this  fragile  structure. 

One  rainy  morning  in  March,  a  young  man,  care- 
fully wrapt  in  his  cloak,  stood  under  the  porch  of  a 

(5) 


6  THE  HOUSE  OF 

shop  opposite  this  old  house,  examining  it  with  the 
enthusiasm  of  an  arch^ologist.  And  certainly  this 
fragment  of  the  Sixteenth  Century  bourgeoisie  pre- 
sented to  an  observer  more  than  one  problem.  Each 
story  had  some  peculiarity;  the  ground-floor  had 
four  long,  narrow  windows,  close  together,  the  lower 
parts  crossed  by  squares  of  wood  in  order  to  pro- 
duce the  doubtful  light  by  the  help  of  which  the 
materials  of  a  clever  tradesman  assume  the  colors 
desired  by  his  customers.  The  young  man  seemed 
indifferent  to  this  essential  part  of  the  house,  he 
did  not  even  appear  to  notice  it.  The  windows  of 
the  second  story  above,  with  their  raised  blinds 
showing  little  red  muslin  curtains  through  large 
panes  of  Bohemian  glass,  had  still  less  interest  for 
him.  His  attention  was  wholly  centred  in  the 
humble  windows  of  the  third  story,  in  the  modest 
windows  whose  rudely  fashioned  woodwork  de- 
served a  place  in  the  Conservatoire  of  Arts  and 
Trades,  as  a  specimen  of  the  primitive  efforts  of 
French  joinery.  So  green  were  the  little  panes  of 
these  windows  that  had  it  not  been  for  his  excellent 
eyesight,  the  young  man  would  not  have  been  able 
to  discern  the  linen  curtains,  with  their  pattern  of 
blue  squares,  that  hid  the  mysteries  of  this  room 
from  the  eyes  of  the  profane.  But  tired  of  his  pro- 
fitless contemplation,  or  of  the  silence  in  which  the 
house,  as  well  as  the  whole  neighborhood,  was 
wrapt,  the  watcher  every  now  and  then  bent  his 
gaze  upon  the  lower  regions.  An  involuntary  smile 
played  upon  his   lips  each  time  he  looked  at  the 


THE  CAT  AND  RACKET  7 

shop,  where,  in  fact,  features  sufficiently  amusing 
might  be  seen.  A  tremendous  piece  of  wood,  hori- 
zontally supported  by  four  posts  that  were  appa- 
rently bent  by  the  weight  of  this  decrepit  old  house, 
had  been  adorned  with  as  many  layers  of  paint  as 
the  cheek  of  an  old  duchess  is  covered  with  rouge. 
In  the  middle  of  this  delicately-carved  beam  was 
an  old  picture  representing  a  cat  playing  at  ball. 
It  was  this  canvas  that  roused  the  young  man's 
mirth.  But  it  must  be  confessed  that  the  most  in- 
telligent of  modern  painters  could  not  have  origi- 
nated a  more  comical  caricature.  In  one  of  his  front 
paws  the  animal  was  holding  a  racket  as  big  as 
himself,  he  was  standing  up  on  his  hind  legs  to  aim 
at  an  enormous  ball  returned  to  him  by  a  gentleman 
in  an  embroidered  coat.  Design,  color  and  acces- 
sories, all  combined  to  suggest  that  the  artist  wished 
to  mock  at  the  tradesman  and  the  passers-by. 

This  picture  had  become  still  more  ludicrous 
owing  to  the  modifications  made  by  time,  which 
rendered  the  outlines  so  uncertain  as  to  greatly  puz- 
zle the  unconscious  idler.  Thus  the  cat's  spotted 
tail  stood  out  in  such  a  way  that  it  might  have 
been  taken  for  a  spectator.  So  big,  erect  and  thick 
were  the  tails  of  our  ancestors'  cats. 

To  the  right  of  the  picture,  upon  an  azure  ground 
that  only  imperfectly  disguised  the  rottenness  of  the 
wood,  passers-by  might  read:  GUILLAUME,  and  to 
the  left:  SUCCESSOR  TO  THE  SlEUR  CHEVREL.  The 
sun  and  rain  had  worn  away  most  of  the  gold  so 
sparingly  applied  to  the  letters  of  this  inscription, 


8  THE  HOUSE  OF 

in  which  the  letter  U  took  the  place  of  V  and  vice 
versa,  according  to  the  rules  of  our  ancient  orthog- 
raphy. In  order  to  humble  the  pride  of  those  who 
believe  that  the  world  grows  daily  more  intelligent 
and  that  modern  charlatanism  surpasses  everything, 
it  is  as  well  to  here  observe  that  these  signboards, 
whose  etymology  appears  strange  to  more  than  one 
Parisian  tradesman,  are  dead  pictures  of  living  pic- 
tures by  which  our  rogues  of  ancestors  succeeded  in 
attracting  customers  to  their  shops.  Thus  the  Spin- 
ning Sow,  the  Green  Monkey,  etc.,  were  animals  in 
cages,  whose  cleverness  was  the  astonishment  of 
passers-by,  and  whose  training  testified  to  the 
patience  of  the  Fifteenth  Century  industrial.  Such 
curiosities  enriched  their  lucky  owners  more  quickly 
than  the  Providence,  the  Good  Faith,  the  Grace  of 
God,  and  the  Beheading  of  John  the  Baptist  that  are 
still  to  be  seen  in  Rue  Saint-Denis.  However,  the 
stranger  most  assuredly  was  not  staying  there  to 
admire  the  cat,  that  one  moment's  attention  sufficed 
to  engrave  upon  the  memory.  This  young  man  also 
had  his  peculiarities.  The  classic  folds  of  his  cloak 
revealed  his  elegantly  shod  feet,  which  were  all  the 
more  conspicuous  in  the  depths  of  the  Paris  mud,  on 
account  of  the  white  silk  socks  whose  spattered 
condition  testified  to  his  impatience.  No  doubt  he 
came  from  a  wedding  or  ball,  for  at  this  early  hour 
he  held  a  pair  of  white  gloves,  and  his  uncurled 
black  locks,  scattered  over  his  shoulders,  indicated 
a  coiffure  after  the  st3'le  of  Caracalla,  brought  into 
fashion  not  less  by  the  school  of  David,  than  by  the 


THE  CAT  AND   RACKET  9 

infatuation  for  Greek  and  Roman  customs  that 
marked  the  early  years  of  this  century.  Despite 
the  noise  caused  by  several  belated  market  gar- 
deners galloping  past  to  the  great  market  there  was 
a  magic  in  the  quiet  of  this  usually  busy  street  that 
is  known  to  those  only  who  have  wandered  through 
deserted  Paris  at  those  times  when  her  uproar, 
lulled  for  a  space,  revives  and  murmurs  in  the  dis- 
tance like  the  great  voice  of  the  sea.  This  young 
stranger  must  have  appeared  as  peculiar  to  the 
tradesman  of  the  Cat  and  Racket  as  the  Cat  and 
Racket  did  to  him.  A  dazzling  white  tie  caused  his 
anxious  face  to  appear  paler  than  it  really  was. 
The  alternately  gloomy  and  eager  light  flashing  in 
his  black  eyes  harmonized  with  the  strange  outlines 
of  his  face,  and  with  his  large  and  sinuous  mouth, 
which  contracted  when  he  smiled.  His  forehead 
was  wrinkled  as  if  under  the  influence  of  some 
strong  annoyance  and  bore  a  somewhat  terrible  ex- 
pression, is  not  the  brow  the  most  prophetic 
feature  in  man?  When  distorted  by  anger,  there 
was  something  almost  terrifying  in  the  force  with 
which  the  lines  gathered  in  the  stranger's  fore- 
head; but  when  it  recovered  its  easily  disturbed 
composure,  it  wore  the  bright  charm  that  formed 
the  attraction  of  this  physiognomy,  in  which  joy, 
pain,  love,  anger  and  scorn  were  expressed  in  so 
speaking  a  manner  that  the  most  cold-blooded  man 
must  have  been  moved  by  it.  When  the  attic 
window  was  hastily  opened,  the  unknown  was  so 
thoroughly  out  of  temper  that  he  did  not  see  three 


10  THE   HOUSE  OF 

merry  faces,  all  round,  pink  and  white,  as  much 
alike  as  the  figures  of  Commerce  carved  on  certain 
monuments.  These  three  faces,  framed  by  the 
window,  recalled  the  chubby  angel  heads  pictured 
as  scattered  in  the  clouds  around  the  Almighty. 
The  apprentices  inhaled  the  emanations  from  the 
street  with  an  avidity  that  testified  to  the  hot  and 
vitiated  atmosphere  of  their  garret.  After  pointing 
to  the  strange  looking  sentinel,  the  clerk  who 
seemed  the  merriest  of  the  three,  disappeared,  and 
presently  returned  holding  a  stiff  metal  instrument 
which  has  lately  been  superseded  by  the  more  sup- 
ple strop;  then,  maliciously  watching  the  idler  they 
sprinkled  him  with  a  fine  whitish  shower  which, 
from  its  perfume,  showed  that  the  three  chins  had 
just  been  shaved.  Retreating  on  tiptoe  to  the  back 
of  their  attic  to  enjoy  their  victim's  rage,  the  clerks 
stopped  laughing  when  they  saw  the  careless  scorn 
with  which  the  young  man  shook  his  cloak,  and  the 
profound  contempt  depicted  in  his  face  as  he  lifted 
his  eyes  to  the  empty  window.  At  this  moment,  a 
white  and  delicate  hand  raised  toward  the  moulding 
the  lower  part  of  one  of  the  rough  windows  in 
the  third  story  by  means  of  those  cords  whose 
pulley  often  drops  the  heavy  frame  it  is  meant  to 
support.  The  loafer  was  then  rewarded  for  his 
long  waiting.  The  face  of  a  young  girl  appeared, 
fresh  as  one  of  those  lilies  that  flower  upon  the 
bosom  of  the  waters,  crowned  by  a  ruche  of  rumpled 
muslin  that  gave  her  head  a  wonderfully  innocent 
look.     Although  clothed  in  some  dark  material  her 


THE  CAT  AND   RACKET  II 

neck  and  shoulders  could  be  seen,  thanks  to  some 
slight  openings  which  her  movements  during  sleep 
had  made.  No  expression  of  constraint  could  alter 
the  ingenuity  of  this  face  or  the  serenity  of  eyes  for- 
ever immortalized  in  Raphael's  sublime  composi- 
tions; there  was  the  same  grace,  the  same  tranquil- 
lity as  that  of  the  proverbial  Madonna.  The 
youthful  cheeks,  upon  which  slumber  had  laid,  as 
it  were,  a  superabundance  of  life,  made  a  charming 
contrast  to  the  massive  old  window  with  its  rough 
outlines  and  blackened  sill.  The  young  girl,  barely 
awake,  rested  her  blue  eyes  on  the  neighboring 
roofs  and  looked  up  at  the  sky  like  those  flowers  that 
morning  fmds  with  petals  still  unfurled;  then,  from 
force  of  habit  she  lowered  them  to  the  dingy  regions 
of  the  street,  where  they  promptly  encountered 
those  of  her  adorer;  coquettishly  ashamed  of  being 
seen  en  deshabille,  she  hastily  withdrew,  the  worn- 
out  pulley  revolved,  the  window  fell  with  a  rapidity 
that  within  our  days  has  gained  an  invidious  repu- 
tation for  our  ancestors'  simple  invention,  and  the 
vision  disappeared. 

It  seemed  to  the  young  man  as  if  the  brightest 
morning  star  had  been  hidden  by  a  cloud. 

During  these  little  incidents  the  heavy  inside 
shutters  protecting  the  thin  panes  of  the  shop  of 
the  Cat  and  Racket,  had  been  removed  as  if  by 
magic.  The  old,  knockered  door  was  thrown  back 
against  the  inner  wall  of  the  house  by  a  servant 
who  was  probably  a  contemporary  of  the  signboard, 
to  which,  with  a  shaky  hand,  he  fastened  a  square 


12  THE  HOUSE  OF 

cloth  embroidered  in  yellow  silk  with  the  name 
GuiLLAUME,  Successor  to  Chevrel.  It  would 
have  puzzled  more  than  one  passer-by  to  guess  the 
nature  of  Monsieur  Guillaume's  trade. 

The  great  iron  bars  protecting  the  exterior  of  the 
shop  prevented  a  good  view  of  the  brown  linen  pack- 
ets that  were  as  numerous  as  herrings  in  the  ocean.  In 
spite  of  the  apparent  simplicity  of  this  Gothic  front, 
Monsieur  Guillaume's  shops  were  the  best  stocked 
of  all  the  merchant  drapers  in  Paris,  he  had  the 
most  extensive  connections,  and  his  commercial 
honesty  was  above  the  least  suspicion.  If  any  of 
his  fellow  tradesmen  concluded  a  bargain  with  the 
government  without  having  the  required  quantity 
of  cloth,  he  was  always  ready  to  supply  them,  no 
matter  how  great  the  number  of  pieces  tendered  for. 
The  wily  merchant  knew  a  thousand  ways  of  accru- 
ing the  greatest  profit  without  being  obliged,  as  they 
were,  to  have  recourse  to  patrons,  to  practise  mean 
tricks,  or  give  rich  presents. 

If  his  fellow  tradesmen  could  only  repay  him  in 
safe  long-dated  drafts,  he  would  refer  them  to  his 
notary  as  being  an  accommodating  man,  for  he  knew 
how  to  get  a  double  profit  out  of  the  transaction, 
thanks  to  the  expedient  that  gave  rise  to  the  prover- 
bial saying  amongst  the  tradesmen  of  Rue  Saint- 
Denis,  "God  preserve  you  from  Monsieur  Guil- 
laume's notary!"  as  indicating  a  heavy  discount. 
As  the  servant  retired  the  old  merchant  appeared,  as 
if  by  some  miracle,  upon  the  threshold  of  his  shop. 

Monsieur   Guillaume   surveyed   the   Rue   Saint- 


THE  CAT  AND  RACKET  1 3 

Denis,  the  neighboring  shops  and  the  weather,  with 
the  interest  of  a  man  landing  at  Havre  and  seeing 
France  again  after  a  long  journey. 

Duly  convinced  that  nothing  had  changed  during 
his  sleep,  he  then  perceived  the  stranger  on  guard, 
who,  on  his  side,  contemplated  the  patriarchal 
draper,  just  as  Humboldt  might  have  examined  the 
first  electric  gymnotus  that  he  saw  in  America. 
Monsieur  Guillaume  wore  wide  black  velvet 
breeches,  variegated  stockings  and  square-toe  shoes 
with  silver  buckles.  His  slightly  bent  body  was 
incased  in  a  square-tail  coat,  of  a  greenish  cloth, 
with  square  flaps  and  a  square  collar,  trimmed  with 
big  white  metal  buttons,  reddened  with  wear.  His 
gray  hair  was  so  precisely  flattened  and  combed  on 
his  yellow  skull  that  it  looked  like  a  furrowed  field. 
His  little  green  eyes,  like  gimlet  holes,  shone  be- 
neath two  arches  outlined  by  a  slight  redness  in  the 
place  of  eyebrows. 

Anxiety  had  traced  as  many  horizontal  wrinkles 
on  his  forehead  as  there  were  creases  in  his  coat 
The  sallow  face  indicated  patience,  commercial  pru- 
dence and  that  species  of  sly  cupidity  required  in 
business.  At  that  time  it  was  no  such  rare  thing  as 
it  is  now-a-days,  to  see  these  old  families  preserv- 
ing, like  precious  traditions,  the  customs  and  dress 
peculiar  to  their  calling,  and  who  dwelling  in  the 
midst  of  modern  civil  ization  are  1  ike  the  antediluvian 
remains  discovered  in  quarries  by  Cuvier.  The 
head  of  the  Guillaume  family  was  one  of  these 
remarkable  guardians  of  ancient  customs;   he  was 


14  THE  HOUSE  OF 

often  caught  regretting  the  "Mayors  of  Paris;"  and 
he  never  spoke  of  a  decision  of  the  Commercial 
Court  of  Justice  but  as  o.  Sentence  of  the  Consuls. 
Being  the  first  of  his  household  to  rise,  no  doubt  in 
virtue  of  these  practises,  he  was  resolutely  awaiting 
the  arrival  of  his  three  clerks  in  order  to  scold  them 
should  they  be  late.  These  young  disciples  of  Mer- 
cury dreaded  nothing  so  much  as  the  silent  activity 
with  which,  on  Monday  morning,  the  master 
scrutinized  their  faces  and  movements,  seeking 
evidences  or  traces  of  their  escapades.  But,  at  this 
moment,  the  old  draper  paid  no  attention  to  his  ap- 
prentices; he  was  busily  studying  the  motive  of  the 
anxiety  with  which  the  young  man  in  the  cloak  and 
silk  socks  alternately  surveyed  his  signboard  and 
the  recesses  of  his  shop. 

The  growing  daylight  showed  up  the  wired  office 
hung  round  with  old  green  silk  curtains,  where  were 
kept  the  huge  day-books,  dumb  oracles  of  the  house. 
The  inquisitive  stranger  seemed  to  be  gloating  over 
the  little  place,  and  to  be  taking  a  plan  of  the  side 
dining-room,  lighted  by  a  skylight  whence  the  as- 
sembled family,  during  meals,  could  easily  see  the 
slightest  accident  that  might  occur  on  the  threshold 
of  the  shop.  So  great  an  affection  for  his  house  ap- 
peared suspicious  to  a  merchant  who  had  suffered 
the  administration  of  the  Maximum.*  Monsieur 
Guillaume  naturally  imagined  that  this  sinister 
figure   had   designs   upon   the   till    of  the  Cat  and 

*The  Convention  of  1793  passed  a  law  ordaining  that  merchants  should  not 
exceed  a  fixed  price  in  selling  the  necessities  of  life. 


THE   CAT  AND   RACKET  15 

Racket.  After  a  discreet  enjoyment  of  the  silent 
duel  going  on  between  his  master  and  the  stranger, 
the  oldest  of  the  clerks,  seeing  the  young  man 
stealthily  eyeing  the  windows  of  the  third  story, 
ventured  to  stand  on  the  same  flagstone  as  Monsieur 
Guillaume.  He  took  two  steps  into  the  street, 
lifted  his  head,  and  fancied  he  saw  Mademoiselle 
Augustine  retiring  precipitately.  Displeased  at  the 
perspicacity  of  his  head  clerk,  the  draper  looked 
askant  at  him;  but,  all  of  a  sudden,  the  mutual  ap- 
prehensions excited  by  this  loiterer's  presence  in 
the  minds  of  the  merchant  and  the  amorous  clerk 
were  quieted.  The  stranger  hailed  a  cab  that  was 
making  for  a  neighboring  stand  and  hastily  jumped 
in  with  a  delusive  affectation  of  unconcern.  This 
departure  brought  a  certain  comfort  to  the  hearts  of 
the  other  clerks  who  were  somewhat  anxious  at 
recognizing  the  victim  of  their  joke. 

"Well,  sirs,  what  are  you  staying  there  with 
your  arms  folded  for.?"  said  Monsieur  Guillaume  to 
his  three  neophytes.  "Why!  Bless  my  soul !  In 
times  gone  by  when  I  was  with  the  Sieur  Chevrel,  I 
would  already  have  examined  more  than  two  pieces 
of  cloth." 

"It  was  light  much  earlier  then.?"  said  the  second 
clerk,  upon  whom  this  task  devolved. 

The  old  merchant  could  not  help  smiling.  Al- 
though two  of  these  young  people  entrusted  to  his 
care  by  their  fathers— rich  manufacturers  of  Lou- 
viers  and  Sedan— only  had  to  ask  for  one  hundred 
thousand  francs  to  have  them  on  the  day  when  they 


l6  THE  HOUSE  OF 

were  old  enough  to  set  up  for  themselves,  Guil- 
laume  believed  it  to  be  his  duty  to  keep  them  under 
the  rod  of  an  antiquated  despotism,  unknown  in 
these  days  of  magnificent  modern  shops  where  the 
clerks  expect  to  be  rich  at  thirty;  he  made  them 
work  like  niggers.  As  to  the  three  clerks,  they 
were  equal  to  as  much  work  as  would  have  tired  out 
ten  of  those  officials  whose  sybaritism  now  swells 
the  columns  of  the  budget.  No  noise  broke  the  still- 
ness of  this  solemn  household,  where  the  hinges 
seemed  always  oiled,  and  the  smallest  piece  of  fur- 
niture was  so  respectably  clean  as  to  proclaim  a 
rigid  order  and  economy.  The  most  mischievous  of 
the  clerks  would  often  amuse  himself  writing  the 
date  of  its  original  receipt  upon  the  Gruyere  cheese 
that  was  abandoned  to  them  at  luncheon  and  that  it 
pleased  them  to  spare.  This  trick  and  others  of  a 
similar  character  would  sometimes  draw  a  smile 
from  the  youngest  of  Monsieur  Guillaume's  two 
daughters,  the  pretty  virgin  who  had  just  appeared 
to  the  fascinated  stranger.  Although  each  of  the 
apprentices,  and  even  the  oldest  one,  paid  a  large 
sum  for  board,  not  one  of  them  would  have  dared 
remain  at  the  master's  table  after  the  dessert  had 
been  served.  When  Madame  Guillaume  spoke  of 
dressing  the  salad  these  poor  youths  trembled  at  the 
thought  of  how  sparingly  her  prudent  hand  could 
pour  the  oil.  They  might  not  venture  to  spend  a 
night  out  without  giving  a  plausible  reason  for 
this  irregularity  a  long  time  beforehand.  Every 
Sunday,  in  town,  two  of  the  clerks  accompanied  the 


THE  CAT  AND  RACKET  1 7 

Guillaume  family  to  Mass  and  Vespers  at  Saint-Leu. 
Mademoiselles  Virginie  and  Augustine,  modestly- 
dressed  in  print  gowns,  each  took  the  arm  of  a 
clerk  and  walked  on  in  front  under  their  mother's 
piercing  eye,  who  brought  up  the  rear  of  this  little 
domestic  procession  with  her  husband,  who  used  to 
carry  for  her  two  big  prayer-books  bound  in  black 
morocco.  The  second  clerk  had  no  salary.  As  for 
the  one  whom  twelve  years  of  perseverance  and 
discretion  had  initiated  into  the  secrets  of  the  busi- 
ness, he  received  eight  hundred  francs  as  the  reward 
for  his  labors.  At  certain  family  festivities  he  was 
favored  with  a  few  presents  whose  value  was  en- 
hanced only  by  the  dry  and  wrinkled  hand  of  Ma- 
dame Guillaume:  beaded  purses  that  she  carefully 
filled  with  cotton  to  show  up  their  open-work 
design,  strongly  made  braces,  or  heavy  silk  stock- 
ings. Sometimes,  but  very  rarely,  this  prime  min- 
ister was  allowed  a  share  in  the  family  pleasures, 
whether  they  went  into  the  country,  or  whether, 
after  waiting  months,  they  decided  to  avail  them- 
selves of  their  right,  in  applying  for  a  box,  to  ask 
for  a  play  that  Paris  no  longer  thought  anything 
of.  As  for  the  three  other  clerks,  the  barrier  of 
respect  that  formerly  separated  a  master  draper 
from  his  apprentices  was  so  firmly  fixed  between 
them  and  the  old  merchant  that  they  could  more 
easily  have  stolen  a  piece  of  cloth  than  upset  this 
sacred  etiquette. 

This  reserve  may  appear  ridiculous  now-a-days, 
but  these  old  firms  were  schools  of  morality  and 
2 


l8  THE  HOUSE  OF 

honesty.  The  masters  adopted  their  apprentices. 
A  young  man's  linen  was  attended  to,  mended  and 
sometimes  renewed  by  the  mistress  of  the  house. 

If  a  clerk  fell  ill  he  was  the  object  of  true  moth- 
erly care.  In  case  of  danger,  the  master  spared  no 
money  in  sending  for  the  most  distinguished  doc- 
tors; for  he  was  not  answerable  to  the  parents  of 
these  young  people  for  their  morals  and  acquire- 
ments alone.  If  one  of  them,  with  an  honorable 
character,  met  with  disaster,  these  old  merchants 
knew  how  to  appreciate  the  intelligence  that  they 
had  helped  to  develop  and  did  not  hesitate  to  entrust 
their  daughter's  happiness  to  one  in  whose  hands 
they  had  so  long  trusted  their  wealth. 

Guillaume  was  one  of  these  old-fashioned  men, 
and  if  he  possessed  their  absurdities  he  also  had  all 
their  qualities;  and  so  Joseph  Lebas,  his  head  clerk 
and  a  penniless  orphan  was,  in  his  opinion,  the 
future  husband  of  his  eldest  daughter,  Virginie. 
But  Joseph  did  not  share  his  master's  symmetrical 
projects,  who  would  never,  for  a  kingdom,  have 
allowed  his  second  daughter  to  marry  before  the 
first.  The  unfortunate  clerk  felt  that  his  heart 
was  wholly  set  upon  Mademoiselle  Augustine,  the 
younger. 

In  order  clearly  to  understand  this  passion,  that 
had  grown  secretly,  it  is  necessary  to  further  dis- 
cover the  spirit  of  despotic  government  that  ruled 
the  house  of  the  old  merchant  draper. 

Guillaume  had  two  daughters.  The  elder.  Made- 
moiselle  Virginie,   was  the  perfect   image  of   her 


THE   CAT  AND   RACKET  I9 

mother.  Madame  Guillaume,  daughter  of  the  Sieur 
Chevrel,  held  herself  so  upright  on  the  seat  at  her 
desk,  that  more  than  once  she  overheard  some  wags 
betting  that  she  was  impaled.  Her  thin,  long  face 
betrayed  an  extreme  piety.  Without  charm  or 
pleasant  manners,  Madame  Guillaume  habitually 
decked  her  almost  sexagenarian  head  with  a  cap  of 
unvarying  shape  trimmed  with  lappets  like  that  of 
a  window.  The  whole  neighborhood  called  her  "la 
soeurtouriere.  "*  Her  speech  was  curt  and  her  ges- 
tures something  like  the  jerky  movements  of  the 
telegraph.  Her  clear,  cat-like  eye,  seemed  to  bear  a 
grudge  against  the  whole  world  because  she  was 
ugly.  Mademoiselle  Virginie,  brought  up  like  her 
younger  sister  under  the  mother's  despotic  laws,  was 
now  twenty-eight  years  old.  Youth  lessened  the  un- 
pleasant expression  that  her  likeness  to  her  mother 
sometimes  gave  to  her  face;  but  the  maternal  sever- 
ity had  endowed  her  with  two  great  qualities  that 
counter-balanced  all;  she  was  meek  and  patient. 
Mademoiselle  Augustine,  barely  eighteen,  was  like 
neither  father  nor  mother.  She  was  one  of  those 
offsprings  that,  in  the  absence  of  all  physical  link 
with  their  parents,  give  credence  to  the  prudish 
saying,  "God  sends  children."  Augustine  was 
slight,  or,  to  describe  her  more  accurately,  delicate. 
Graceful,  and  full  of  ingenuousness,  no  man  of  the 
world  could  have  reproached  this  charming  creature 
with  anything  but  awkward  gestures  or  certain 
underbred  attitudes,  and  sometimes  a  want  of  ease. 

*Touriere:  i.e.  the  attendant  of  the  turning  box  in  convents. 


20  THE  HOUSE  OF 

Her  quiet,  still  face  breathed  that  transient  melan- 
choly that  possesses  all  young  girls  who  are  too 
weak  to  venture  any  resistance  to  a  mother's  will. 
Always  quietly  dressed,  the  two  sisters  could  only 
gratify  a  woman's  innate  coquetry  by  an  excess  of 
neatness  which  became  them  wonderfully  and  was 
in  keeping  with  the  shining  counters,  with  the 
shelves  which  the  old  servant  kept  spotless,  and 
with  the  old-fashioned  simplicity  of  all  around 
them.  Forced  by  their  way  of  life  to  seek  happi- 
ness in  persistent  industry,  Augustine  and  Virginie 
up  till  now,  had  given  nothing  but  satisfaction  to 
their  mother,  who  secretly  congratulated  herself 
upon  the  perfection  of  their  characters.  It  is  easy 
to  imagine  the  results  of  the  education  they  had 
received.  Brought  up  in  trade,  accustomed  to  hear 
nothing  but  dismally  mercantile  discussions  and  cal- 
culations, having  learnt  nothing  beyond  grammar, 
bookkeeping,  a  little  Jewish  history,  French  history 
in  Le  Ragois,  and  reading  no  authors  but  those 
whose  books  were  approved  of  by  their  mother,  their 
ideas  were  very  limited;  they  knew  how  to  keep 
house  perfectly,  they  knew  the  cost  of  things,  they 
appreciated  the  difficulties  that  are  experienced  in 
amassing  money,  they  were  economical  and  had  a 
deep  respect  for  commercial  qualities.  In  spite  of 
their  father's  income,  they  could  darn  as  skilfully 
as  they  could  embroider;  their  mother  often  spoke 
of  teaching  them  to  cook,  in  order  that  they  might 
know  how  to  order  a  dinner  and  know  their  reasons 
for  scolding  a  cook.     Ignorant  of  the  pleasures  of 


THE  CAT  AND  RACKET  21 

the  world,  and  seeing  how  the  exemplary  life  of 
their  parents  was  passed,  they  very  seldom  noticed 
anything  beyond  the  precincts  of  the  old  patrimonial 
home  which,  to  their  mother,  constituted  the  uni- 
verse.    The  gatherings  at  the  family  solemnities 
formed  the  whole  sum  of  their  earthly  joys.     When 
the    big   drawing-room   on   the    second   story  was 
opened  to  receive   Madame   Roguin,   a   demoiselle 
Chevrel,  fifteen  years  younger  than  her  cousin,  who 
wore   diamonds;    the   young  Rabourdin,    assistant 
manager  of  the  Treasury;    Monsieur  Cesar  Birot- 
teau,  a  rich  perfumer  and  his  wife,  called  Madame 
Cesar;    Monsieur  Camusot  the   richest   silk   mer- 
chant in  the  Rue  des  Bourdonnais,  and  his  father- 
in-law,  Monsieur  Cardot;  two  or  three  old  bankers 
and  their  irreproachable  wives;  then,  the  prepara- 
tions necessitated  by  the  manner  in  which  the  silver, 
Dresden  china,   lights   and  glass  were  wrapt  up, 
made  a  diversion  in  the  monotonous  lives  of  these 
three  women,  who  ran  about  like  nuns  preparing  for 
their  bishop's  reception.     Then,  when,  at  night,  all 
three  were  tired  out  with  cleaning,    rubbing,    un- 
packing and  arranging  the  decorations  for  the  feast, 
and  the  two  young  girls  were  helping  their  mother 
to  bed,  Madame  Guillaume  would  say: 

"We  have  done  nothing  to-day,  my  dears!" 
When,  during  these  solemn  assembl  ies,  the  "sceur 
touriere"  allowed  dancing,  shutting  up  the  boston, 
whist  and  tric-trac  parties  in  her  bedroom,  this  privi- 
lege was  considered  as  one  of  the  most  unexpected 
delights,    and    gave    as    much   pleasure    as   when 


22  THE   HOUSE  OF 

Guillaume  took  his  daughters  to  two  or  three  big 
balls  during  the  Carnival.  Finally,  once  a  year  the 
honest  draper  gave  a  party  on  which  he  spared  no 
expense.  However  rich  and  fashionable  the  guests 
invited,  they  took  care  not  to  miss  it;  because  the 
most  important  houses  in  the  place  resorted  to  the 
enormous  credit,  fortune,  or  long  tried  experience  of 
Monsieur  Guillaume.  But  the  worthy  merchant's 
two  daughters  did  not  profit  as  much  as  might  have 
been  supposed  by  the  opportunities  society  offers  to 
young  people.  At  these  gatherings  they  wore 
dresses  that  were  entered  in  the  bill  books  of  the 
house,  but  whose  shabbiness  made  them  ashamed. 
Their  dancing  was  nothing  remarkable,  and  the  ma- 
ternal supervision  forbade  any  further  conversation 
than  "yes"  and  "no"  with  their  partners.  Besides, 
the  laws  of  the  old  ensign  of  the  Cat  and  Racket, 
ordained  that  all  must  be  home  by  eleven,  just 
when  the  1  ife  of  balls  and  parties  was  beginning. 
Thus,  though  outwardly  consistent  with  their 
father's  means,  their  pleasures  were  often  dull  ow- 
ing to  circumstances  arising  from  the  habits  and 
principles  of  the  family.  As  to  their  ordinary  life, 
a  word  will  complete  the  picture.  Madame  Guil- 
laume insisted  that  her  two  girls  should  be  dressed 
very  early,  that  they  should  come  down  every  day 
at  the  same  time,  and  should  arrange  their  occupa- 
tions with  monastic  regularity.  And  yet,  by  some 
chance,  Augustine  had  a  soul  that  was  capable  of 
feeling  the  emptiness  of  such  an  existence.  Some- 
times her  blue  eyes  would  be  raised  as  if  to  pierce 


THE  CAT  AND  RACKET  23 

the  depths  of  the  gloomy  staircase  and  damp  ware- 
houses. After  having  fathomed  the  silence  of  this 
cloister  she  would  seem  to  be  listening  afar  to  the 
vague  revelations  of  that  impassioned  life  that  sets 
more  value  on  feelings  than  things.  At  these 
moments  her  face  would  flush,  her  idle  hands  would 
drop  the  white  musl  in  on  to  the  pol  ished  oak  counter, 
and  presently  her  mother  would  say  in  a  voice  that 
was  always  sour  in  spite  of  the  loving  tone: 

"Augustine!  what  are  you  thinking  of,  my  dar- 
ling?" 

Perhaps  Hippolyte,  Comte  de  Douglas,  and  Le 
Comte  de  Comminges,  two  novels  belonging  to  a  cook 
whom  Madame  Guillaume  had  recently  dismissed, 
and  which  Augustine  had  found  in  a  cupboard  may 
have  contributed  to  the  development  of  this  young 
girl's  ideas,  for  she  had  secretly  devoured  them 
during  the  long  evenings  of  the  last  winter.  Her  ex- 
pressions of  vague  longing,  her  sweet  voice,  her  jas- 
mine skin  and  blue  eyes  had  consequently  inflamed 
the  heart  of  the  unfortunate  Lebas,  with  a  love  that 
was  as  strong  as  it  was  respectful.  By  some  caprice 
that  can  be  readily  understood,  Augustine  felt  no  sort 
of  attraction  for  the  orphan ;  perhaps  it  was  because 
she  was  unconscious  of  his  love  for  her.  In  return 
the  long  legs,  chestnut  hair,  large  hands  and  robust 
appearance  of  the  head  clerk  found  a  secret  admirer 
in  Mademoiselle  Virginie,  who,  in  spite  of  her 
dowry  of  50,000  crowns  had  never  been  sought  in 
marriage  by  anyone.  There  was  nothing  more 
natural  than  these  two  inverted  passions  born  in 


24  THE  HOUSE  OF 

the  silence  of  these  obscure  counters,  as  violets 
bloom  in  the  depths  of  a  wood.  The  mute  and  con- 
stant contemplation  that  these  young  people  ex- 
changed, from  the  need  of  distraction  in  the  midst  of 
prolonged  work  and  religious  quiet,  was  bound 
sooner  or  later  to  excite  feelings  of  love.  The  habit 
of  constantly  seeing  one  face  unconsciously  leads  to 
the  discovery  of  the  soul's  qualities  and  ends  in 
effacing  its  imperfections. 

"Atthe  rate  this  man  is  going,  it  will  not  be  long 
before  our  daughters  will  have  to  kneel  to  a  suitor!" 
said  Monsieur  Guillaume  to  himself  in  reading  the 
first  order  with  which  Napoleon  drew  upon  the  con- 
scripts. From  that  day,  in  despair  at  seeing  his 
eldest  daughter  fading, the  old  merchant  recal  led  how 
he  had  married  Mademoiselle  Chevrel  under  very 
nearly  the  same  conditions  as  those  of  Joseph  Lehas 
and  Virginie.  What  a  glorious  thing  it  would  be  to 
marry  his  daughter  and  acquit  himself  of  a  sacred 
debt,  by  giving  an  orphan  the  same  blessing  that  he 
himself  had  formerly  received,  under  the  same  cir- 
cumstances, from  his  predecessor.  Being  thirty- 
three  years  old,  Joseph  Lebas  thought  of  the 
obstacles  that  the  difference  of  fifteen  years  placed 
between  Augustine  and  himself.  Besides  being 
intelligent  enough  to  see  through  Monsieur  Guil- 
laume's  plans,  he  also  knew  his  inexorable  princi- 
ples well  enough  to  be  certain  that  the  younger 
would  never  marry  before  the  elder.  So  the  poor 
clerk,  whose  heart  was  as  good  as  his  legs  were 
long  and  his  frame  was  big,  suffered  in  silence. 


THE  CAT  AND  RACKET  25 

Such  was  the  state  of  affairs  in  this  little  repub- 
lic in  the  middle  of  the  Rue  Saint-Denis,  resembling 
nothing  so  much  as  a  branch  of  the  Trappists.  But, 
in  order  to  give  a  strict  account  of  external  events 
as  well  as  sentiments,  it  will  be  necessary  to  go 
back  several  months  before  the  scene  with  which 
this  story  opens. 


* 

A  young  man,  once  passing  at  nightfall  in  front  of 
the  dark  shop  of  the  Cat  and  Racket,  stopped  for 
a  moment  to  contemplate  a  picture  that  would  have 
held  all  the  painters  in  the  world. 

The  shop,  as  yetunlighted,  formed  a  black  ground 
at  the  end  of  which  could  be  seen  the  merchant's 
dining-room.  An  astral  lamp  shed  that  yellow  light 
that  gives  so  much  charm  to  the  pictures  of  the 
Dutch  school.  The  snowy  linen,  the  silver  and 
glass,  formed  brilliant  accessories,  which  the  vivid 
contrasts  between  the  light  and  shade  only  served 
to  exaggerate.  The  face  of  the  head  of  the  family 
and  that  of  his  wife,  those  of  the  clerks  and  the  pure 
outlines  of  Augustine,  behind  whom  stood  a  big, 
fat-cheeked  girl,  composed  so  curious  a  group, — the 
heads  were  so  original  and  each  bore  so  open  an  ex- 
pression,— one  could  so  well  imagine  the  peace,  still- 
ness and  unpretending  life  of  this  family,  that,  for 
an  artist  accustomed  to  depicting  Nature,  there  was 
something  hopeless  in  attempting  to  convey  this 
casual  scene.  The  passer-by  was  a  young  artist, 
who,  seven  years  before,  had  carried  off  the  Grand 
Prix  for  painting.  He  had  just  returned  from  Rome. 
Nourished  upon  poetry  and  satiated  with  Raphael 
and  Michael  Angelo,  his  soul  and  eyes  thirsted  for 
real  nature  after  a  long  residence  in  a  stately  land 
overspread   with  the   grandeur   of   Art.     Right   or 

(27; 


28  THE  HOUSE  OF 

wrong  such  was  his  personal  feeling.  Given  up 
for  so  long  to  fierce  Italian  passions  his  heart  longed 
for  one  of  those  simple,  placid  virgins  whom  unfor- 
tunately he  could  only  fmd  in  paintings  at  Rome. 
From  the  enthusiasm  excited  in  his  ardent  soul  by 
the  artless  tableau  that  he  was  watching,  he  very 
naturally  passed  into  a  profound  admiration  for  the 
principal  figure.  Augustine  seemed  pensive  and  was 
no  longer  eating;  by  some  arrangement  of  the  lamps 
by  which  the  light  fell  entirely  on  her  face,  her 
bust  appeared  to  be  moving  in  a  circle  of  fire  that 
showed  up  the  outline  of  her  head  more  vividly  than 
the  rest  and  illuminated  it  in  a  way  that  was  half 
supernatural.  Involuntarily  the  artist  likened  her 
to  an  exiled  angel  thinking  of  heaven.  An  almost 
unknown  sensation,  a  clear  and  burning  love,  inun- 
dated his  heart.  Stopping  for  a  moment  as  if 
crushed  beneath  the  weight  of  his  ideas,  he  tore 
himself  away  from  his  happiness  and  went  home 
unable  to  eat  or  sleep.  The  next  day  he  entered  his 
studio  not  to  leave  it  until  he  had  set  down  on  can- 
vas the  magic  of  this  scene,  at  the  recollection  of 
which  he  became  almost  fanatical.  His  happiness 
was  incomplete  without  a  faithful  portrait  of  his  idol. 
He  passed  by  the  Cat  and  Racket  several 
times,  he  even  dared  to  go  in  two  or  three  times, 
disguised,  in  order  to  obtain  a  closer  view  of  the 
lovely  creature  under  the  wing  of  Madame  Guil- 
laume.  For  eight  whole  months,  devoted  to  his 
love  and  his  brushes,  he  remained  invisible  to  his 
most  intimate  friends,  indifferent  to  society,  poetry, 


THE  CAT  AND  RACKET  29 

theatres,  music  and  his  most  cherished  habits.  One 
morning  Girodet  infringing  the  orders  that  artists 
recognize  and  know  how  to  evade,  succeeded  in 
finding  him,  and  woke  him  up  with  this  question : — 

"What  are  you  sending  to  the  Salon?" 

The  artist  seized  his  friend's  hand,  dragged  him 
to  the  studio  and  uncovered  a  small  easel  picture 
and  a  portrait  After  a  slow  and  eager  contempla- 
tion of  the  two  masterpieces  Girodet  threw  his 
arms  round  his  friend  and  embraced  him,  unable  to 
speak.  His  emotions  could  only  be  expressed  as  he 
felt  them,  heart  to  heart. 

"You  are  in  love?"  said  Girodet. 

Both  knew  that  the  most  beautiful  portraits  by 
Raphael,  Titian,  and  Leonardo  de  Vinci  are  owing 
to  exalted  feelings  which,  after  all,  under  diverse 
conditions,  are  responsible  for  all  masterpieces. 
For  all  answer  the  young  artist  bent  his  head. 

"How  lucky  you  are  to  be  in  love,  after  returning 
from  Italy !  I  do  not  advise  you  to  place  such  works 
as  these  in  the  salon,"  added  the  great  painter. 
"You  see,  these  two  pictures  will  not  be  under- 
stood. These  realistic  tints,  and  wonderful  work 
cannot  yet  be  appreciated.  The  public  is  not  ac- 
customed to  so  much  depth.  The  pictures  we  paint, 
my  good  friend,  are  screens,  fire  screens.  See  here, 
we  had  much  better  write  verses  and  translate  the 
ancients !  We  may  expect  more  glory  from  that  than 
from  our  miserable  canvas." 

In  spite  of  this  charitable  advice  the  two  can- 
vases were  exhibited.     The  picture  of  the  interior 


30  THE  HOUSE  OF 

caused  a  revolution  in  painting.  It  gave  birtli  to 
the  genre-paintings  of  whicli  such  an  enormous 
quantity  are  imported  into  our  exhibitions  that  one 
might  almost  believe  they  are  obtained  by  some 
purely  mechanical  process.  As  for  the  portrait, 
there  are  few  artists  who  do  not  recollect  that  living 
canvas,  to  which  the  public,  as  a  whole,  occasionally 
just,  awarded  the  wreath  that  Girodet  himself 
placed  upon  it.  A  huge  crowd  surrounded  the  two 
pictures — "A  perfect  crush,"  as  women  say. 
Speculators  and  nobles  offered  to  cover  the  two 
canvases  with  double  napoleons;  the  artist  obsti- 
nately refused  to  sell  them  or  to  reproduce  them. 
He  was  offered  a  large  sum  for  his  consent  to  en- 
grave them,  but  the  dealers  were  no  more  successful 
than  the  amateurs.  Although  society  in  general 
was  talking  of  this  event,  it  was  not  of  a  nature  to 
reach  the  heart  of  the  little  desert  in  the  Rue  Saint- 
Denis;  nevertheless,  whilst  paying  a  visit  to  Ma- 
dame Guillaume,  the  solicitor's  wife  spoke  about 
the  exhibition  before  Augustine,  whom  she  dearly 
loved,  and  explained  the  purpose  of  it  to  her.  Madame 
Roguin's  chatter  naturally  inspired  her  with  a  wish 
to  see  the  pictures  and  gave  her  the  courage  to 
secretly  ask  her  cousin  to  take  her  to  the  Louvre. 
The  cousin  was  successful  in  prevailing  upon  Ma- 
dame Guillaume  to  give  her  permission  to  snatch 
her  little  cousin  from  her  dreary  work  for  about  two 
hours.  So  the  young  girl  made  her  way  through  the 
crowd  to  the  crowned  picture.  She  shook  like  a 
leaf  when  she  recognized  herself.     She  was  afraid 


THE  CAT  AND  RACKET  3 1 

and  looked  round  for  Madame  Roguin,  from  whom 
she  had  been  separated  by  the  surging  crowd.  At 
this  moment  her  terrified  eyes  met  the  glowing  face 
of  the  young  artist  She  suddenly  recollected  it  as 
that  of  a  stroller  whom  she  had  often  noticed  with 
curiosity,  thinking  he  was  a  new  neighbor. 

"You  see  how  love  has  inspired  me!"  whispered 
the  artist  to  the  timid  creature  who  stood  aghast  at 
these  words. 

A  supernatural  courage  helped  her  to  break 
through  the  crowd  and  rejoin  her  cousin,  who  was 
still  struggling  through  the  masses  that  barred  her 
way  to  the  picture. 

"You  will  be  suffocated !"  cried  Augustine,  "come 
away!" 

But  there  are  moments  in  the  salon  when  two 
solitary  women  are  not  always  able  to  make  their 
way  through  the  galleries.  Mademoiselle  Guillaume 
and  her  cousin,  in  consequence  of  the  surging  move- 
ments of  the  crowd  were  pushed  to  within  a  few  feet 
of  the  second  picture.  Chance  decreed  that  together 
they  should  approach  the  canvas  to  which  fashion, 
for  once  in  accordance  with  art,  had  awarded  the 
palm  of  glory.  The  exclamation  of  surprise  that 
broke  from  the  solicitor's  wife  was  lost  in  the  hub- 
bub and  buzzing  of  the  crowd;  as  for  Augustine  she 
was  involuntarily  crying  at  sight  of  this  marvelous 
painting,  and,  prompted  by  some  inexplicable  feel- 
ing, she  placed  her  fmger  on  her  lips  when  she  saw 
the  ecstatic  face  of  the  young  artist  quite  close  to 
her.     The  unknown  nodded  in  reply  and  indicated 


32  THE  HOUSE  OF 

Madame  Roguin  as  a  wet  blanket,  in  order  to  show 
Augustine  she  was  understood.  The  poor  girl  grew 
hot  as  fire  at  this  pantomime  and  felt  herself  guilty 
in  supposing  she  had  entered  into  a  compact  with 
the  artist. 

The  stifling  heat,  the  incessant  sight  of  the  most 
dazzling  toilettes,  the  giddiness  produced  by  the 
variety  of  colors,  the  multitude  of  painted  and  liv- 
ing figures,  and  the  profusion  of  gilded  frames, 
caused  her  to  feel  a  sort  of  intoxication  that  in- 
creased her  fears.  She  might  perhaps  have  fainted, 
had  she  not,  in  spite  of  this  chaos  of  sensations,  ex- 
perienced a  strange  joy  in  her  secret  heart,  that 
quickened  her  whole  being.  Nevertheless  she  be- 
lieved herself  to  be  under  the  influence  of  the  demon 
whose  terrible  snares  she  had  heard  predicted  in  the 
thundering  eloquence  of  the  pulpit.  This  moment 
for  her  was  a  moment  of  madness.  She  pictured 
herself  escorted  to  her  cousin's  carriage  by  this 
young  man,  beaming  with  love  and  happiness.  A 
prey  to  an  entirely  new  irritation  and  an  intoxica- 
tion that  yielded  her  in  some  measure  to  nature, 
Augustine  listened  to  the  eloquent  voice  of  her 
heart,  and  looked  at  the  young  painter  several  times, 
plainly  showing  the  trouble  that  possessed  her. 
The  carnation  of  her  cheeks  had  never  formed  a 
stronger  contrast  to  the  whiteness  of  her  skin.  The 
artist  then  saw  this  beauty  at  its  best,  this  modesty 
in  all  its  glory.  Augustine  felt  a  sort  of  joy  min- 
gled with  terror  in  the  thought  that  her  presence 
gave  happiness  to  one  whose  name  was  on  every 


THE  CAT  AND   RACKET  33 

lip,  and  whose  talent  gave  immortality  to  fleeting 
impressions.  He  loved  her!  It  was  impossible  to 
doubt  it.  When  she  could  no  longer  see  him  these 
simple  words  re-echoed  in  her  heart — "You  see  how 
love  has  inspired  me!"  So  strongly  had  her  ardent 
blood  roused  strange  forces  within  her  that  the  deep- 
ening thrills  seemed  to  her  painful.  She  feigned  a 
bad  headache  in  order  to  avoid  her  cousin's  ques- 
tions about  the  pictures;  but,  on  their  return  Ma- 
dame Roguin  could  not  resist  speaking  to  Madame 
Guillaume  of  the  celebrity  acquired  by  the  Cat  and 
Racket  and  Augustine  trembled  in  every  limb  when 
she  heard  her  mother  say  she  would  go  to  the  Salon 
to  see  her  house.  The  young  girl  complained  again 
of  the  pain  she  suffered,  and  obtained  permission  to 
go  to  bed. 

"Headache!"  cried  Monsieur  Guillaume,  "that  is 
all  one  gains  at  all  these  shows.  Is  it  very  amusing 
to  see  in  a  painting  a  thing  that  one  can  see  any 
day  in  our  street.?  Don't  talk  to  me  of  these  artists 
who,  like  authors,  are  all  starving  wretches.  What 
the  devil  is  the  necessity  for  their  taking  my  house 
to  vilify  it  in  their  pictures.'"' 

' '  Perhaps  it  may  hel  p  us  to  sel  1  a  few  extra  pieces 
of  cloth,"  said  Joseph  Lebas. 

But  this  observation  did  not  prevent  a  second 
condemnation  of  the  arts  and  ideas  at  the  tribunal 
of  Trade.  As  may  well  be  supposed,  these  disser- 
tations did  not  give  any  great  hope  to  Augustine, 
who  gave  herself  up  during  the  night  to  her  first 
meditations  upon  Love.  The  events  of  that  day 
3 


34  THE  HOUSE  OF 

were  like  a  dream  that  she  loved  to  recall  in  her 
thoughts.  She  was  a  victim  of  all  the  fears,  hopes, 
regrets  and  all  the  uncertainties  of  feelings  that 
must  delude  a  simple,  timid  soul  like  her  own.  How 
empty  this  dark  house  now  seemed,  and  what  a 
treasure  she  had  found  in  her  soul !  What  havoc 
this  idea  was  to  work  in  the  heart  of  a  child  brought 
up  in  the  bosom  of  such  a  family!  What  hopes 
might  it  not  raise  in  a  young  girl  who,  hitherto 
reared  upon  ordinary  principles,  had  always  longed 
for  a  superior  life!  A  ray  of  sunlight  shone  into 
this  prison.  Augustine  suddenly  loved!  So  many 
feelings  were  flattered  at  the  same  time  that  she 
succumbed  without  the  least  calculation.  Is  not 
Love's  prism  thrown  between  the  world  and  the 
eyes  of  a  young  girl  eighteen  years  of  age.-"  Inca- 
pable of  foreseeing  the  terrible  shocks  that  result 
from  an  alliance  between  a  loving  woman  and  a 
man  of  imagination,  she  believed  herself  destined 
to  make  his  happiness,  without  perceiving  any  in- 
congruity between  herself  and  him.  Her  present 
was  her  future.  The  next  day  when  her  father  and 
mother  returned  from  the  Salon,  their  lengthened 
faces  indicated  some  disappointment.  In  the  first 
place  the  artist  had  removed  the  two  pictures;  and 
then  Madame  Guillaume  had  lost  her  cashmere 
shawl.  The  knowledge  that  the  pictures  had  dis- 
appeared after  her  visit  to  the  Salon  was  a  revela- 
tion to  Augustine  of  a  delicacy  of  feeling  that 
women  always,  and  even  instinctively,  appreciate. 
The  morning  that  Theodore  de  Sommervieux — such 


THE  CAT  AND  RACKET  35 

was  the  name  of  the  celebrity  engraved  upon  Augus- 
tine's heart — returning  from  a  ball,  was  sprinkled 
by  the  clerks  of  the  Cat  and  Racket — whilst  he 
was  waiting  for  the  vision  of  his  simple  little 
friend — who  most  assuredly  did  not  know  he  was 
there — was  the  fourth  time  only  that  the  two  lovers 
had  seen  each  other  since  the  scene  in  the  Salon. 
The  obstacles  that  the  regime  of  the  Guillaume 
house  presented  to  the  artist's  impetuous  character, 
only  served  to  increase  his  passion  for  Augustine 
with  a  strength  that  can  easily  be  imagined.  How 
was  it  possible  to  approach  a  young  girl  seated  at  a 
counter  between  two  such  women  as  Mademoiselle 
Virginie  and  Madame  Guillaume? 

How  correspond  with  her  when  her  mother  never 
left  her?  Apt,  like  all  lovers,  to  imagine  misfor- 
tunes, Theodore  fancied  he  had  a  rival  in  one  of  the 
clerks,  and  supposed  the  others  to  be  in  the  interests 
of  his  rival.  Even  if  he  escaped  so  many  Argus 
eyes,  he  pictured  himself  falling  under  the  stern 
gaze  of  the  old  merchant  or  of  Madame  Guillaume. 
On  all  sides  barriers  and  hopelessness!  The  very 
violence  of  his  passion  prevented  the  young  painter 
from  resorting  to  those  ingenious  expedients  that 
with  prisoners  as  well  as  lovers,  seem  to  be  the 
final  efforts  of  a  brain  that  is  stimulated  by  a  mad 
desire  for  liberty  or  by  the  ardor  of  love.  So 
Theodore  rushed  about  the  neighborhood  with  the 
activity  of  a  madman,  as  if  motion  could  inspire  him 
with  some  stratagem.  Having  thoroughly  racked 
his  imagination  he  bethought  himself  of  bribing  the 


36  THE   HOUSE  OF 

fat-cheeked  servant.  Several  letters  were  then  ex- 
changed from  time  to  time  during  the  fortnight  that 
followed  the  unlucky  morning  when  Monsieur  Guii- 
laume  and  Theodore  had  scrutinized  each  other  so 
well.  For  the  present,  the  two  young  people 
agreed  to  see  each  other  at  a  certain  hour  of  the  day, 
and  on  Sundays  at  Saint-Leu  during  Mass  and  Ves- 
pers. Augustine  had  sent  her  beloved  Theodore  a 
list  of  the  family  friends  and  relations,  to  whom  the 
young  artist  tried  to  gain  access,  in  hopes  of  excit- 
ing some  interest  in  his  love  affairs,  in  one  of  these 
people  who  were  absorbed  in  money  and  trade, 
and  to  whom  a  genuine  passion  would  seem  the  most 
absurd  and  unheard  of  speculation.  Otherwise 
there  was  no  change  in  the  ways  of  the  Cat  and 
Racket.  If  Augustine  were  absent-minded;  if, 
against  every  kind  of  rule  in  the  domestic  chart  she 
went  to  her  room,  thanks  to  a  pot  of  flowers,  to 
arrange  some  signals;  if  she  sighed,  in  fact,  if  she 
were  at  all  thoughtful,  nobody,  not  even  her  mother, 
was  aware  of  it.  This  state  of  affairs  might  some- 
what surprise  those  who  understood  the  spirit  of  the 
house,  where  any  thought  infected  with  poetry  must 
have  formed  a  contrast  to  the  people  and  the  things, 
where  nobody  could  indulge  in  a  gesture  or  look  that 
was  not  seen  and  analyzed.  And  yet  nothing  could 
be  more  natural ;  the  quiet  vessel  navigating  the 
stormy  sea  of  the  Place  de  Paris,  under  the  flag  of 
the  Cat  and  Racket,  was  a  prey  to  one  of  those  gales 
which,  from  their  periodic  returns,  might  be  termed 
equinoctial. 


THE  CAT  AND  RACKET  37 

For  fifteen  days  the  five  men  of  the  crew, 
Madame  Guillaume  and  Mademoiselle  Virginie 
had  devoted  themselves  to  the  stupendous  labor 
known  as  an  inventory.  They  moved  all  the  bales 
and  measured  the  pieces  to  ascertain  the  exact  value 
of  the  remnants.  The  card  attached  to  each  packet 
was  carefully  examined  to  see  when  the  cloth  had 
been  bought  The  present  price  was  affixed.  Mon- 
sieur Guillaume  looked  like  a  captain  directing 
manoeuvres,  standing  all  the  time,  with  his  measure 
in  his  hand  and  his  pen  behind  his  ear.  His  shrill 
voice  passing  through  a  peephole  in  communicating 
with  the  depths  of  the  hatchway  of  the  basement 
uttered  these  barbarous  commercial  terms,  that  can 
only  be  expressed  in  enigmas:  "How  much  of  H- 
N-Z.?  Take  it  away— How  much  left  of  Q-X-? — 
Two  ells — What  price .?— Five-five-three — Carry  to 
3 A  all  J- J,  all  M-P,  and  the  remainder  of  V-D-O." 

Thousands  of  equally  intelligible  phrases 
sounded  across  the  counters  like  verses  of  modern 
poetry  that  romanticists  might  have  been  quoting  to 
each  other  to  indulge  their  enthusiasm  for  one  of 
their  parts.  In  the  evening  Guillaume,  closeted 
with  his  clerk  and  his  wife,  settled  the  accounts, 
entered  afresh,  wrote  to  those  in  arrears  and  made 
up  the  bills.  All  three  prepared  this  enormous  task, 
the  result  being  written  on  a  square  of  foolscap, 
and  proved  to  the  house  Guillaume  that  it  had  so 
much  in  cash,  so  much  in  goods,  so  much  in  drafts 
and  bills;  that  it  owed  not  a  penny,  but  was  owed 
one  or  two  hundred  thousand  francs ;  that  the  capital 


189936 


38         THE   HOUSE  OF  THE   CAT  AND   RACKET 

had  augmented;  that  the  leases,  houses  and  funds 
were  to  be  increased,  repaired  or  renewed.  From 
all  this  arose  the  necessity  of  amassing  more  money 
with  renewed  ardor,  these  industrious  ants  never 
dreaming  of  asking — "To  what  purpose?"  Under 
cover  of  this  annual  tumult  Augustine  luckily  es- 
caped their  Argus-like  investigation.  At  last,  one 
Saturday  night  the  closing  of  the  inventory  took 
place.  Upon  this  occasion  the  figures  in  the  assets 
presented  so  many  ciphers  that  Guillaume  relaxed 
the  severity  of  the  orders  that  prevailed  all  the  year 
round  at  dessert.  The  cunning  draper  rubbed  his 
hands  and  allowed  his  clerks  to  remain  at  table. 
Each  man  had  hardly  finished  his  demi  verre  of 
home-made  liqueur,  when  the  rumbling  of  a  carriage 
was  heard.  The  family  went  to  see  Cinderella  at 
the  Varietes  whilst  to  each  of  the  two  youngest 
clerks  was  given  a  six-franc  piece  and  permission 
to  go  where  he  pleased,  provided  he  came  in  at 
midnight. 


On  Sunday  morning,  in  spite  of  this  debaucii, 
the  old  merchant  draper  shaved  at  six  o'clock,  put 
on  his  chestnut  colored  coat — whose  magnificent 
lustre  always  gave  him  the  same  pleasure, — 
fastened  gold  buckles  in  the  flaps  of  his  ample  silk 
breeches;  then,  towards  seven,  when  the  whole 
house  was  still  wrapt  in  slumber,  he  went  to  the 
little  closet  adjoining  his  shop  on  the  first  story. 
Daylight  came  through  a  window  armed  with  great 
iron  bars,  that  overlooked  a  little  square  courtyard 
framed  in  such  dark  walls  that  it  was  not  at  all  un- 
like a  well.  The  old  tradesman  opened  the  sheet- 
iron  shutters  with  which  he  was  so  familiar,  and 
lifted  half  the  window  by  sliding  it  in  its  groove. 
The  icy  air  from  the  yard  freshened  the  stuffy 
atmosphere  of  the  closet,  which  had  that  odor  pecu- 
liar to  offices.  The  merchant  stood,  resting  his 
hand  on  the  greasy  arm  of  a  cane  arm-chair  lined 
with  faded  morocco,  as  if  uncertain  whether  to  sit 
down  or  not.  His  expression  softened  as  he  looked 
at  the  office  with  two  desks,  where  his  wife's  place, 
opposite  his  own,  was  arranged  in  a  small  arch  con- 
trived in  the  wall.  He  looked  at  the  numbered 
half-sheets,  the  string,  the  implements,  the  instru- 
ments for  marking  the  cloth,  and  the  till,  objects  of 
an  immemorial  origin,  and  he  fancied  he  could  see 
himself  once  more  before  the  conjured-up  spirit  of 

(39) 


40  THE  HOUSE  OF 

the  Sieur  Chevrel.  He  drew  forward  the  identical 
stool  upon  which  he  had  sat  in  the  presence  of  his 
defunct  master.  This  stool,  upholstered  in  black 
leather,  with  the  horsehair  that  had  long  been 
escaping  from  the  corners,  he  placed  with  trembling 
hands  in  the  same  spot  as  his  predecessor  had  done; 
then  in  an  indescribable  state  of  agitation  he  pulled 
the  bell  that  communicated  with  the  head  of  Joseph 
Lebas's  bed.  Having  made  this  decisive  move,  the 
old  man,  doubtless  overcome  by  these  recollections, 
took  up  two  or  three  bills  of  exchange  that  had  been 
presented  to  him,  and  was  looking  over  them  with 
unseeing  eyes,  when  Joseph  Lebas  suddenly  ap- 
peared. 

"Sit  down  there,"  said  Guillaume  pointing  to  the 
stool. 

As  the  old  master  had  never  bidden  his  clerk  sit 
in  his  presence,  Joseph  Lebas  trembled. 

"What  do  you  think  of  these  drafts.?"  asked 
Guillaume. 

"They  will  not  be  paid." 

"What.?" 

"Why,  the  day  before  yesterday  I  knew  that 
Etienne  &  Co.  had  made  all  payments  in  gold." 

"Oh!  oh!"  cried  the  clothier,  "one  must  be  very 
sick  to  bring  up  bile.  Let's  talk  of  something  else. 
Joseph,  the  inventory  is  finished." 

"Yes  sir,  and  the  dividend  is  one  of  the  finest  you 
have  ever  had." 

"Don't  use  those  modern  words — Call  it  'pro- 
ceeds,' Joseph.     Do  you  know,  my  boy,  that  we 


THE  CAT  AND   RACKET  4I 

owe  these  results  in  a  small  measure  to  you?  there- 
fore, I  no  longer  wish  you  to  receive  any  salary. 
Madame  Guillaume  has  suggested  to  me  to  offer  you 
a  share  in  the  business.  Eh!  Joseph!  'Guillaume 
and  Lebas. '  Would  not  these  names  make  a  fine 
firm  ?  One  might  add  'And  Company'  to  round 
off  the  signature." 

Joseph  Lebas's  eyes  filled  with  tears  which  he 
tried  to  hide. 

"Ah!  Monsieur  Guillaume!  What  have  I  done  to 
deserve  so  much  goodness?  I  have  only  done  my 
duty.  You  did  a  great  deal  in  even  interesting  your- 
self in  a  poor  orph " 

He  rubbed  his  cuffs  one  over  the  other,  and  dared 
not  look  at  the  old  man,  who  smiled  as  he  thought 
that  this  youth,  like  himself  in  times  gone  by, 
needed  encouragement  to  make  a  complete  explana- 
tion. 

"And  yet,"  continued  Virginie's  father,  "you 
hardly  deserve  this  favor  Joseph!  You  do  not  place 
as  much  confidence  in  me  as  I  do  in  you" — the  clerk 
suddenly  raised  his  head — "you  know  the  secret  of 
the  till.  For  two  years  I  have  told  you  nearly  all 
my  affairs.  I  have  made  you  travel  for  fabrics — In 
short — to  you  I  have  bared  my  heart — But  you  ? — 
you  have  an  attachment  of  which  you  have  not  told 
me  a  single  word" — Joseph  Lebas  reddened — "Hal 
ha!"  cried  Guillaume,  "you  think  you  can  de- 
ceive an  old  fox  like  myself?  1,  who,  as  you  know, 
found  out  the  insolvent  Lecoq!" 

"How,    sir,"   answered    Lebas,    looking    at    his 


42  THE  HOUSE  OF 

master  as  intently  as  the  latter  looked  at  him,"how ! 
you  know  that  I  love?" 

"I  know  all,  you  rascal !"  said  the  venerable  and 
cunning  merchant,  pulling  his  ear — "And  I  forgive 
you;  I  did  the  same  thing  myself." 

"And  will  you  give  her  to  me?" 

"Yes,  with  fifty  thousand  crowns,  and  I  shall 
leave  you  as  much  again,  and  we  will  continue  with 
a  new  firm.  We  will  brew  fresh  business,  my  boy!" 
cried  the  old  merchant,  getting  up  and  waving  his 
arms.  "You  see,  my  son-in-law,  trade  is  the  only 
thing!  Those  who  ask  what  pleasure  is  to  be  got 
out  of  it  are  fools.  To  be  in  the  track  of  business — 
to  know  how  to  manage  on  the  spot — to  wait  with 
the  eagerness  of  a  gambler  to  see  if  Etienne  & 
Company  are  going  bankrupt — to  see  a  regiment  of 
the  Imperial  Guard  passing  by,  dressed  in  our  cloth, 
to  trip  up  a  neighbor,  honestly  of  course!  to  manu- 
facture cheaper  than  others — to  follow  a  business 
that  is  first  sketched  out,  that  begins,  increases,  tot- 
ters and  finally  succeeds — to  know  like  the  police 
all  the  resources  of  the  mercantile  firms  in  order  to 
make  no  mistakes, — to  stand  erect  in  the  face  of 
failure — to  possess  friends,  through  correspondence, 
in  all  the  manufacturing  towns ; — is  not  this  a  never- 
ending  amusement,  Joseph?  But  it  is  life!  1  shall 
die  in  the  midst  of  such  work,  like  old  Chevrel, 
taking  things,  however,  at  my  ease." 

In  the  heat  of  his  most  vigorous  extemporizing,  old 
Guillaume  had  hard'y  looked  at  his  clerk,  who  was 
weeping  bitterly. 


THE  CAT  AND   RACKET  43 

"Why,  Joseph!  my  poor  boy,  what  is  the  mat- 
ter?" 

"Oh!  I  love  her  so,  so  much,  Monsieur  Guil- 
laume,  that  my  heart  fails  me,  I  fancy — " 

"Well,  boy,"  said  the  merchant  softening,  "you 
are  luckier  than  you  think — by  Jove!  for  she  loves 
you.  I  know  it!"  and  he  winked  his  little  green 
eyes  as  he  looked  at  his  clerk. 

"Mademoiselle  Augustine!  Mademoiselle  Augus- 
tine!" cried  Joseph  Lebas  in  his  excitement. 

He  was  rushing  out  of  the  closet  when  he  was  ar- 
rested by  a  hand  of  iron  and  his  master,  horrified, 
swung  him  swiftly  round  in  front  of  him. 

"What  has  Augustine  to  do  with  this  matter.?" 
asked  Guillaume,  whose  tone  of  voice  promptly  froze 
the  unfortunate  Joseph  Lebas. 

"Is  it  not  she — whom — I  love.-'"  stammered  the 
clerk. 

Disconcerted  at  his  own  want  of  perspicacity, 
Guillaume  sat  down  again  and  buried  his  peaked 
head  in  his  hands  to  think  out  the  strange  position 
in  which  he  was  placed.  Joseph  Lebas  remained 
standing,  ashamed  and  distressed. 

"Joseph,"  resumed  the  merchant,  with  cold  dig- 
nity, "I  was  speaking  of  Virginie.  I  know  that 
love  cannot  be  made  to  order.  1  trust  your  discretion 
and  we  will  forget  what  has  occurred.  1  will  never 
allow  Augustine  to  marry  before  Virginie.  Your 
interest  will  be  ten  per  cent." 

Inspired  by  love  with  an  incredible  degree  of 
courage  and  eloquence,  the  clerk  clasped  his  hands, 


44  THE  HOUSE  OF 

began  to  speak,  and  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour  spoke 
to  Guillaume  with  so  much  heat  and  feeling  that 
the  position  of  affairs  was  changed.  Had  it  been 
some  commercial  business  the  old  merchant  would 
have  decided  it  by  fixed  rules;  but,  as  he  would 
have  put  it,  cast  a  thousand  miles  away  from 
commerce  on  a  sea  of  sentiment  without  a  compass, 
he  floated  irresolutely  before  so  original  an  occur- 
rence. Carried  away  by  his  natural  goodness  of 
heart,  he  beat  about  the  bush  for  a  little  while. 

"But,  deuce  take  it!  Joseph,  you  are  not  una- 
ware of  the  fact  that  there  is  ten  years'  difference 
between  my  two  children!  Mademoiselle  Chevrel 
was  certainly  not  beautiful,  but  then  she  could  not 
complain  about  me.  Do  as  1  did.  Come  now,  do 
not  weep  any  more!  How  silly  you  are!  What 
more  do  you  want?  Perhaps  it  will  all  come  right, 
we  will  see.  There  is  always  some  way  out  of  a 
difficulty.  We  men  are  not  always  sentimental 
lovers  about  our  wives — You  understand?  Madame 
Guillaume  is  very  prejudiced  and — Well,  then! 
Hang  it  all!  my  boy,  give  your  arm  to  Augustine 
this  morning  going  to  Mass!" 

Such  were  the  random  sentences  jerked  out  by 
Guillaume.  The  inference  with  which  they  con- 
cluded enraptured  the  love-sick  clerk;  he  was 
already  thinking  of  one  of  his  friends  for  Mademoi- 
selle Virginie  when  he  came  out  of  the  smoky  closet 
squeezing  his  future  father-in-law's  hand,  after 
having  said  to  him  with  a  look  of  intelligence  that 
all  would  be  arranged  for  the  best. 


THE  CAT  AND  RACKET  45 

"What  will  Madame  Guillaume  think?" 

This  idea  greatly  worried  the  worthy  merchant 
when  he  was  alone. 

At  luncheon,  Madame  Guillaume  and  Virginie, 
from  whom  the  master  had  temporarily  concealed 
his  disappointment,  looked  somewhat  slily  at  Jo- 
seph Lebas,  who  was  greatly  embarrassed.  The 
bashful ness  of  the  clerk  won  him  favor  with  his 
mother-in-law. 

The  old  lady  became  so  lively  that  she  actually 
smiled  at  Monsieur  Guillaume,  and  indulged  in 
several  little  jokes  used  from  time  immemorial  in 
this  simple  family.  She  called  the  heights  of 
Virginie  and  Joseph  in  question,  so  as  to  have 
their  measure.  This  preparatory  nonsense  clouded 
the  brow  of  the  head  of  the  family  and  he  even 
affected  such  a  love  of  decorum  that  he  ordered 
Augustine  to  take  the  head  clerk's  arm  going  to 
Saint-Leu. 

Madame  Guillaume,  astonished  at  this  masculine 
delicacy,  honored  her  husband  with  an  approving 
nod.  So  the  procession  left  the  house  in  an  order 
that  could  suggest  no  spiteful  interpretation  to  the 
neighbors. 

"Do  you  not  think,  Mademoiselle  Augustine," 
said  the  trembling  clerk,  "that  the  wife  of  a  mer- 
chant, who  has  so  much  influence,  like  Monsieur 
Guillaume  for  instance,  might  amuse  herself  a  little 
more  than  Madame  does,  might  wear  diamonds  or 
ride  in  a  carriage.''  As  for  me,  if  I  were  to  marry, 
I  should  do  all  the  work,  and  see  my  wife  happy. 


46  THE   HOUSE  OF 

I  should  not  put  her  in  my  office.  You  see,  in  the 
cloth  business  women  are  no  longer  so  necessary 
as  formerly.  Monsieur  Guillaume  was  quite  right 
to  act  as  he  did,  and  besides,  it  was  his  wife's 
choice.  But  it  is  sufficient  if  a  woman  knows 
enough  to  lend  a  hand  with  the  accounts,  correspon- 
dence, retailing,  orders,  or  her  household,  so  as  not 
to  be  idle — that  is  all.  At  seven  o'clock,  when  the 
shop  would  be  closed,  1  would  amuse  myself — I 
should  go  to  the  play  or  into  society — but  you  are 
not  listening?" 

"Oh!  yes,  Monsieur  Joseph.  What  do  you  say 
to  painting.?     That  is  a  splendid  calling." 

"Yes,  I  know  a  master  house  painter,  Monsieur 
Lourdois,  who  is  rich."  And  chatting  in  this  way, 
the  family  arrived  at  the  church  of  Saint-Leu. 
There,  Madame  Guillaume  reasserted  her  rights, 
and  for  the  first  time,  placed  Augustine  by  her  side. 
Virginie  took  the  fourth  chair  next  to  Lebas.  Dur- 
ing the  sermon,  all  went  well  between  Augustine 
and  Theodore,  who,  standing  behind  a  pillar,  was 
praying  to  his  Madonna  with  fervor ;  but,  during  the 
raising  of  the  Host,  Madame  Guillaume  noticed,  a 
little  late  in  the  day,  that  her  daughter  Augustine 
held  her  prayer-book  upside  down.  She  was  on  the 
point  of  giving  her  a  good  scolding  when,  lowering 
her  veil,  she  suspended  her  lecture  and  followed  the 
directions  of  the  young  girl's  eyes. 

By  the  help  of  her  spectacles  she  saw  the  young 
artist,  whose  fashionable  elegance  gave  him  the  ap- 
pearance  of  some  cavalry   officer  off  duty,  rather 


THE  CAT  AND  RACKET  47 

than  a  merchant  of  the  quariier.  It  is  difficult  to 
imagine  the  furious  condition  of  Madame  Guillaume 
— who  flattered  herself  that  she  had  brought  up  her 
daughters  to  perfection — when  she  discovered  a 
clandestine  love  in  Augustine's  heart,  the  danger  of 
which  her  prudishness  and  ignorance  greatly  exag- 
gerated. She  believed  her  daughter  to  be  polluted 
to  the  heart. 

"Hold  your  book  the  right  way,  Mademoiselle," 
she  said  in  a  low  voice,  but  shaking  with  rage. 

She  hastily  snatched  the  accusing  prayer-book 
and  replaced  it  in  such  a  way  that  the  letters  re- 
sumed their  natural  order. 

"You  had  better  not  look  anywhere  else  but  at 
your  prayers,"  she  added,  "or  you  will  have  me  to 
deal  with.  After  Mass,  your  father  and  1  will  have 
something  to  say  to  you." 

These  words  came  like  a  thunderbolt  to  poor 
Augustine.  She  felt  herself  giving  way;  but  strug- 
gling with  the  pain  she  felt  and  the  fear  of  causing 
a  scandal  in  the  church,  she  had  the  courage  to  hide 
her  agonies.  And  yet  it  is  easy  to  imagine  the  vio- 
lent state  of  mind  she  was  in  when  she  saw  her 
prayer-book  shaking  and  the  tears  falling  on  each 
page  as  she  turned  it. 

By  the  furious  glance  that  Madame  Guillaume 
hurled  at  him,  the  artist  saw  the  danger  with  which 
his  love  was  threatened  and  he  went  out,  his  heart 
full  of  anger,  determined  to  dare  all. 

"Goto  your  room.  Mademoiselle,"  said  Madame 
Guillaume  to  her  daughter  upon  reaching  the  house. 


48  THE  HOUSE  OF 

"we  will  call  you,  and  above  all,  do  not  dare  to 
come  out." 

The  conference  between  the  husband  and  wife 
was  so  secret,  that  at  first  nothing  transpired.  But 
Virginie,  who  had  encouraged  her  sister  with  a 
thousand  kindly  representations,  carried  her  kind- 
ness to  the  extent  of  slipping  to  the  door  of  her 
mother's  bedroom  where  the  discussion  was  takins; 
place,  in  order  to  gather  a  few  words.  The  first 
time  she  went  from  the  third  to  the  second  story, 
she  heard  her  father  crying: 

"Then  you  wish  to  kill  your  daughter,  Madame?" 

"My  poor  child,"  said  Virginie  to  her  tearful 
sister,  "papa  is  defending  you." 

"And  what  do  they  intend  to  do  to  Theodore?" 
asked  the  simple  creature. 

The  inquisitive  Virginie  went  down  once  more; 
but  this  time  she  stayed  longer;  she  learnt  that 
Lebas  loved  Augustine.  It  was  fated  that  upon 
this  memorable  day,  this  ordinarily  peaceful  house- 
hold should  become  a  pandemonium.  Monsieur 
Guillaume  distracted  Joseph  Lebas  when  he  con- 
fided to  him  that  Augustine  loved  a  stranger.  Lebas, 
who  had  advised  his  friend  to  propose  for  Mademoi- 
selle Virginie  saw  all  his  hopes  dashed  to  the  ground. 
Mademoiselle  Virginie,  overcome  with  the  know- 
ledge that  Joseph  had  in  some  sort  of  way  refused 
her,  was  seized  with  a  sick  headache.  The  discord 
sown  between  husband  and  wife  by  the  discussion 
they  had  had  together,  when,  for  the  third  time 
in  their  lives,  their  opinions  differed,  showed  itself 


THE  CAT  AND  RACKET  49 

in  a  terrible  manner.  Atlast  four  hours  after  noon, 
Augustine,  pale,  trembling  and  with  reddened  eyes, 
appeared  before  her  father  and  mother.  The  poor 
child  naively  related  the  brief  history  of  her  love. 
Reassured  by  her  father,  who  had  promised  to  listen 
in  silence,  she  took  a  certain  courage  in  pronouncing 
the  name  of  her  beloved  Theodore  de  Sommervieux 
before  her  parents,  and  mischievously  emphasized 
the  aristocratic  de.  Abandoning  herself  to  the 
strange  pleasure  of  talking  of  her  feelings,  she 
mustered  up  sufficient  audacity  to  declare  with  an 
innocent  firmness  that  she  loved  Monsieur  de  Som- 
mervieux, that  she  had  written  to  him,  and  she 
added  with  tears  in  her  eyes : 

"It  would  make  me  miserable  to  sacrifice  me  to 
another." 

"But,  Augustine,  do  you  not  know  that  he  is 
nothing  but  a  painter.?"  cried  her  horrified  mother. 

"Madame  Guillaume!"  said  the  old  man,  silenc- 
ing his  wife. — "Augustine,"  said  he,  "artists  are 
generally  good-for-nothings. — They  are  too  extrava- 
gant to  be  anything  but  worthless  fellows.  I  sup- 
plied the  late  Monsieur  Joseph  Vernet,  the  late 
Monsieur  Lekain  and  the  late  Monsieur  Noverre. 
Ah!  if  you  but  knew  the  tricks  that  this  Monsieur 
Noverre,  Monsieur  le  Chevalier  de  Saint-Georges, 
and  above  all  Monsieur  Philidor  played  upon  that 
poor  father  Chevrel !  They  are  a  queer  lot,  I  know 
well ;  they  all  chatter  so,  and  have  such  ways — ah ! 
your  Monsieur  Sumer — Somm — " 

"De  Sommervieux,  father!" 
4 


50  THE  HOUSE  OF 

"Well,  de  Sommervieux,  be  it!  He  would  never 
have  been  as  amiable  to  you  as  Monsieur  le  Cheva- 
lier de  Saint-Georges  was  to  me — the  day  that  I 
obtained  a  decision  of  the  consuls  against  him. 
Indeed  the  people  of  rank  were  always  so  in  former 
times." 

"But,  father.  Monsieur  Theodore  is  of  noble  birth 
and  has  written  to  me  that  he  is  rich.  His  father 
was  the  Chevalier  de  Sommervieux  before  the  Revo- 
lution." 

At  these  words,  Monsieur  Guillaume  looked  at 
his  formidable  half,  who,  in  feminine  contrariness, 
was  tapping  the  floor  with  her  foot  and  maintaining 
a  gloomy  silence;  she  even  avoided  turning  her 
angry  eyes  toward  Augustine,  and  appeared  to  leave 
the  responsibility  of  so  grave  a  matter  to  Monsieur 
Guillaume  since  her  advice  was  not  heeded;  never- 
theless, in  spite  of  her  apparent  phlegm,  when  she 
saw  her  husband  resigning  himself  so  meekly  to  a  ca- 
tastrophe that  was  in  no  sense  commercial,  she 
cried: 

"Really,  sir!  you  show  a  weakness  with  your 
daughters — but — ' ' 

The  noise  of  a  carriage  stopping  at  the  door,  sud- 
denly interrupted  the  reprimand  that  the  old  mer- 
chant already  dreaded.  In  a  moment  Madame 
Roguin  entered  the  room,  and  looking  at  the  three 
performers  in  this  domestic  drama: 

"I  know  all,  my  cousin,"  she  said  with  a 
patronizing  air. 

Madame  Roguin's  one  fault  was  that  of  believing 


THE  CAT  AND  RACKET  51 

that  the  wife  of  a  Parisian  notary  can  play  the  role 
of  a  great  lady. 

"1  know  all,"  she  repeated,  "and  I  come  into 
Noah's  ark  like  the  dove  with  the  olive  branch. 
I  read  this  allegory  in  the  Genie  du  Christianisme," 
she  said  turning  to  Madame  Guillaume,  "the  com- 
parison ought  to  please  you,  cousin.  Do  you  know," 
she  added  smiling  at  Augustine,  "that  Monsieur  de 
Sommervieux  is  a  charming  man  ?  He  gave  me  my 
own  portrait  to-day  painted  by  a  master's  hand.  It 
is  worth  at  least  six  thousand  francs." 

At  these  words  she  gently  tapped  Monsieur  Guil- 
laume on  the  arm.  The  old  merchant  could  not 
resist  pouting  his  lips  in  a  way  that  was  peculiar 
to  him. 

"I  know  Monsieur  de  Sommervieux  very  well," 
continued  the  dove,  "for  the  last  fortnight  he  has  come 
to  my  soirees,  and  is  the  life  of  them.  He  has  told 
me  all  his  troubles  and  has  enlisted  me  as  his  advo- 
cate. I  know  from  this  morning  that  he  adores 
Augustine,  and  he  will  have  her.  Ah!  cousin  do 
not  shake  your  head  like  that  in  token  of  refusal. 
Know  then,  that  he  is  to  be  created  baron,  and  has 
just  been  appointed  Chevalier  of  the  Legion  of 
Honor  by  the  Emperor  himself  at  the  Salon. 

"Roguin  has  become  his  notary  and  knows  all  his 
affairs.  Well  then.  Monsieur  de  Sommervieux  pos- 
sesses in  good  landed  property  twelve  thousand 
francs  a  year.  Do  you  know  that  the  father-in-law 
of  such  a  man  might  become  something,  mayor  of 
his  arrondissement  for  instance!     Did  you   not  see 


52  THE  HOUSE  OF 

how  Monsieur  Dupont  was  made  a  Count  of  the 
Empire  and  Senator,  for  having  gone,  in  his  capa- 
city as  mayor,  to  congratulate  the  Emperor  upon  his 
entry  into  Vienna?  Oh!  this  marriage  will  take 
place.  1  adore  him,  I  do,  this  good  young  man.  Such 
bearing  as  his  toward  Augustine  is  only  to  be  found 
in  novels.  There,  my  little  one,  you  will  be 
happy,  and  all  the  world  will  envy  you.  Madame 
la  Duchessede  Carigliano,  who  comes  to  my  soirees, 
dotes  upon  Monsieur  Sommervieux.  Some  spiteful 
tongues  say  she  comes  only  on  his  account,  as  if  a 
duchess  of  yesterday  could  be  out  of  place  in  the 
house  of  a  Chevrel  whose  family  can  boast  of  a 
century  of  good  bourgeoisie. — Augustine!"  resumed 
Madame  Roguin  after  a  short  pause,  "1  have  seen 
the  portrait.  Goodness !  how  beautiful  it  is !  Do 
you  know  the  Emperor  wished  to  see  it.?  He  said 
laughingly  to  the  Vice-Constable  that  if  many  such 
women  as  that  were  at  Court  whilst  so  many  kings 
came  there,  it  would  be  hard  to  maintain  the  peace 
of  Europe.     Is  that  not  flattering.?" 

The  storms  with  which  this  day  had  begun  were 
like  those  of  Nature,  bringing  back  calm,  serene 
weather.  Madame  Roguin  was  so  bewitching  in 
the  course  of  conversation,  she  knew  so  well  what 
chords  to  strike  at  once  in  the  dry  hearts  of  Monsieur 
and  Madame  Guillaume,  that  she  ended  by  finding 
one  of  which  she  took  advantage.  At  this  singular 
epoch  trade  and  finance  were  more  than  ever  pos- 
sessed by  the  foolish  mania  of  allying  themselves 
with  noblemen,  and  the  generals  of  the  Empire  were 


THE  CAT  AND  RACKET  53 

not  slow  to  profit  by  this  inclination.  Monsieur 
Guillaume  was  singularly  opposed  to  this  deplor- 
able passion.  His  favorite  axioms  were,  that  to  be 
happy  a  woman  should  marry  a  man  of  her  own 
class;  retribution  sooner  or  later  overtook  those 
who  soared  too  high ; — love  withstood  so  little  the 
worries  of  housekeeping  that  each  must  seek  sound 
qualities  in  the  other  in  order  to  be  happy;  one  of 
the  two  must  not  know  more  than  the  other,  because 
above  all  they  should  understand  each  other;  a 
husband  who  spoke  Greek  and  the  wife  Latin  ran 
the  risk  of  dying  of  hunger.  He  had  invented  this 
sort  of  proverb.  He  would  compare  such  marriages 
to  old  silk  and  woolen  stuffs  where  the  silk  always 
finished  by  cutting  the  wool.  And  yet,  so  much 
vanity  lies  at  the  bottom  of  man's  heart,  that  the 
prudence  of  the  pilot  who  so  well  guided  the  Cat 
and  Racket,  succumbed  to  the  aggressive  volubility 
of  Madame  Roguin.  The  severe  Madame  Guil- 
laume was  the  first  to  find  motives  in  her  daughter's 
inclination  to  induce  her  to  act  contrary  to  her  prin- 
ciples and  consent  to  receive  Monsieur  de  Sommer- 
vieux  at  the  house,  secretly  determined  to  submit 
him  to  a  close  examination. 

The  old  merchant  went  to  find  Lebas  and  informed 
him  of  the  state  of  things.  At  half-past  six,  under 
the  glass  roof  of  the  dining-room  rendered  famous  by 
the  painter,  were  assembled  Madame  and  Monsieur 
Roguin, the  young  artist  and  his  charming  Augustine, 
Joseph  Lebas,  who  took  his  good  fortune  patiently, 
and  Mademoiselle   Virginie,   whose   headache   had 


54  THE  HOUSE  OF 

vanished.  Monsieur  and  Madame  Guillaume  saw 
a  vision  of  their  children  established  and  the 
future  of  the  Cat  and  Racket  intrusted  to  skilful 
hands.  Their  satisfaction  was  complete,  when,  at 
dessert,  Theodore  presented  them  with  the  marvel- 
ous picture  that  they  had  not  seen,  and  that 
depicted  the  interior  of  their  old  shop,  to  which  so 
much  happiness  was  due. 

"How  nice  it  is!"  cried  Guillaume.  "To  think 
that  anyone  would  give  thirty  thousand  francs  for 
that—" 

"And  there  are  my  lappets!"  said  Madame  Guil- 
laume. 

"And  those  unfolded  stuffs,"  added  Lebas,  "one 
could  almost  take  hold  of  them." 

"Draperies  always  paint  well,"  answered  the 
artist,  "we  should  be  too  fortunate,  we  modern 
artists,  if  we  could  attain  the  perfection  of  antique 
drapery." 

"Then  you  like  drapery?"  cried  father  Guil- 
laume. "Well,  shake  hands,  my  young  friend. 
As  you  have  such  a  good  opinion  of  trade  we  shall 
agree.  Well !  and  why  should  it  be  despised?  The 
world  began  that  way  since  Adam  sold  Paradise  for 
an  apple,  though,  to  be  sure  that  was  not  a  first-rate 
speculation!"  And  the  old  merchant,  elated  by  the 
champagne  that  he  was  freely  circulating,  burst  into 
a  loud,  hearty  laugh.  So  blinded  was  the  young 
artist  that  he  thought  his  future  relatives  delightful. 
He  was  not  above  enlivening  them  with  a  few 
tales  in  good  taste.     And  so  he  pleased  everybody. 


THE  CAT  AND   RACKET  55 

At  night,  when    the   smartly  furnished   salon,  as 
Monsieur  Guillaume  expressed   it,   was    deserted; 
while  Madame  Guillaume  was  trotting  from  table 
to  chimney-piece,  from  candelabra  to  candle,  hastily 
blowing    out   the    lights,    the    worthy    merchant, 
always  clear-sighted    in   a  matter   of   business  or 
money,   drew  Augustine  to  his  side;  and,  having 
seated  her  on  his  knee,  delivered  her  this  discourse: 
"My  dear  child,  you  shall  marry  your  Sommer- 
vieux,  as  you  wish  to;  you  may  risk  your  capital  of 
happiness.     But  I  take   no   stock   in    these   thirty 
thousand  francs  that  are  earned  by  spoiling  good 
canvas.     Money  that  comes  so  fast  goes  as  quickly. 
Did  I  not  hear  that  young  scatterbrain  saying  to-night 
that  if  money  was  round  it  was  made  to  roll  ?     If  it 
is  round  for  extravagant  people,  it  is  flat  for  econom- 
ical people  who  pile  it  up.      Now,  my  child,  that 
handsome  boy  talks  of  giving   you   carriages   and 
diamonds.     He  has  money,  let  him  spend  it  on  you ! 
well  and  good!  I  have  nothing  to  say  to  that.     But 
as  to  what  I  shall  give  you,  I  do  not  wish  money 
pocketed  with  so  much  difficulty  to  vanish  in  car- 
riages and  gewgaws.     He  who  spends  too  much  is 
never  rich.     You  cannot  buy  all   Paris  even  with 
the  hundred  thousand  crowns  of  your  dowry.     It  is 
all  very  well  for  you  to  inherit  several  hundreds  of 
thousands  of  francs  one  day,    but,    by  Jingo!    I'll 
make  you  wait  for  it  as  long  as  possible.    So  I  drew 
your   intended  into  a  corner,  and,  for  a  man  who 
managed  the  bankrupt  Lecoq  it  was  not  difficult  to 
obtain  an  artist's  consent  to  marry  with  the  wife's 


56  THE   HOUSE  OF 

estate  separate.  I  shall  attend  to  the  contract  in 
order  to  clearly  stipulate  the  settlements  he  pro- 
poses to  make.  You  see,  my  child,  I  hope  to  be  a 
grandfather,  and  hang  it  all !  I  wish  to  look  after  my 
grandchildren  already;  swear  to  me  here  never  to 
sign  a  deed  of  money  without  my  advice;  and  if  I 
am  gone  to  join  old  Chevrel,  swear  to  me  you  will 
consult  young  Lebas,  your  brother-in-law.  Promise 
me." 

"Yes,  father,  I  swear  it  to  you." 

As  she  said  these  words  in  a  low  voice  the  old 
man  kissed  his  daughter  on  both  cheeks.  That 
night,  all  the  lovers  slept  almost  as  peacefully  as 
Monsieur  and  Madame  Guillaume. 

A  few  months  after  this  memorable  Sunday,  the 
high  altar  of  Saint-Leu  witnessed  two  very  differ- 
ent weddings.  Augustine  and  Theodore  came  in 
all  the  glamor  of  happiness;  their  eyes  full  of  love, 
dressed  in  the  most  elegant  attire,  attended  by  a 
brilliant  train.  Virginie,  arrived  in  a  livery  coach 
with  her  family,  and,  leaning  upon  her  father's  arm, 
meekly  followed  her  younger  sister  in  simple  fmery, 
like  some  shadow  that  was  indispensable  to  the 
harmonies  of  the  picture.  Monsieur  Guillaume 
had  taken  the  greatest  pains  imaginable  to  arrange 
that  Virginie  should  be  married  in  church  before 
Augustine ;  but  he  had  the  mortification  of  seeing  the 
principal  and  lesser  clergy  alike  addressing  the 
most  elegant  of  the  brides  on  every  occasion.  He 
heard  some  of  his  neighbors  particularly  approv- 
ing Mademoiselle  Virginie's  good  sense,  who,  they 


THE   CAT  AND   RACKET  57 

said,  was  making  by  far  the  best  marriage  and  re- 
mained true  to  the  quartier;  whilst  they  launched 
several  envious  sneers  at  Augustine,  who  was  mar- 
rying an  artist,  a  nobleman;  they  added  with  a  sort 
of  dismay  that  if  the  Guillaumes  soared  too  high, 
the  cloth  business  was  lost  Overhearing  an  old 
fan  merchant  saying  that  "that  spendthrift  would 
soon  bring  her  to  want,"  old  Guillaume  inwardly 
congratulated  himself  upon  his  foresight  in  the 
matrimonial  agreement.  That  night  after  a  sump- 
tuous ball,  followed  by  one  of  those  abundant  sup- 
pers that  are  fast  dying  out  in  the  present  generation, 
Monsieur  and  Madame  Guillaume  remained  at  their 
mansion  in  the  Rue  du  Colombier  where  the  wed- 
ding had  taken  place;  Monsieur  and  Madame  Lebas 
returned  in  their  hack  to  the  old  house  in  the  Rue 
Saint-Denis  to  look  after  the  wreck  of  the  Cat  and 
Racket ;  the  artist  intoxicated  with  joy,  took  his 
beloved  Augustine  in  his  arms,  hastily  carried  her 
off  when  their  brougham  reached  the  Rue  des  Trois- 
Freres,  and  led  her  into  a  room  adorned  by  every  art. 


* 

The  transport  of  passion  that  possessed  Theodore 
lasted  the  young  couple  almost  an  entire  year  with- 
out the  least  cloud  to  darken  the  blue  sky  above. 
Existence  for  these  two  lovers  had  no  burdens. 
Over  each  day  Theodore  distributed  incredible 
beauties  of  pleasure,  he  loved  to  vary  the  excesses 
of  passion  with  the  luxurious  languor  of  a  repose  in 
which  the  soul  is  so  lost  in  ecstasy  that  it  seems  to 
forget  any  bodily  union.  Incapable  of  thought,  the 
happy  Augustine  gave  herself  up  to  the  undulating 
course  of  her  delight.  She  fancied  she  was  not 
doing  enough  in  wholly  abandoning  herself  to  the 
lawful,  holy  love  of  marriage;  besides,  simple  and 
na'ive,  she  knew  neither  the  coquetry  of  refusal,  nor 
the  power  that  a  young  woman  of  the  world  can  ex- 
ercise over  a  husband  by  ingenious  caprices;  she 
loved  too  well  to  look  into  the  future  and  imagined 
that  so  delicious  a  life  could  never  cease.  Happy, 
then,  in  being  her  husband's  sole  pleasure,  she  be- 
lieved that  this  inextinguishable  love  would  always 
be  her  most  beautiful  adornment,  as  her  devotion 
and  submission  were  to  be  an  eternal  attraction. 
In  short,  the  joy  of  love  had  made  her  so  radiant 
that  her  beauty  had  roused  her  pride  and  gave  her 
a  consciousness  of  always  being  able  to  influence  as 
susceptible  a  man  as  Monsieur  de  Sommervieux. 
Thus  her  position  of  wife  had  taught  her  no  lessons 

(59; 


60  THE  HOUSE  OF 

but  those  of  love.  In  the  midst  of  this  happiness 
she  remained  the  ignorant  little  girl  who  used  to 
live  in  the  obscurity  of  the  Rue  Saint-Denis,  and 
never  thought  of  adopting  the  style,  attainments  or 
tone  of  the  society  in  which  she  was  to  live.  Her 
words  being  those  of  love,  she  displayed  a  sort  of 
versatility  of  mind  and  a  certain  delicacy  of 
expression ;  but  she  used  the  language  common  to 
all  women  when  they  find  themselves  plunged  into 
a  passion  that  seems  to  be  their  natural  element. 
If  by  any  chance  she  expressed  an  idea  that  jarred 
upon  Theodore,  the  young  artist  would  laugh  at  it 
as  one  does  at  the  first  mistakes  of  a  foreigner, 
which  end  by  becoming  wearisome  if  they  are  not 
corrected.  In  spite  of  so  much  love,  at  the  end  of 
this  year  which  had  flown  as  delightfully  as  it  had 
rapidly,  Sommervieux  one  morning  felt  the  need  of 
resuming  work  and  his  old  habits.  His  wife  was 
pregnant.  He  went  amongst  his  friends  again. 
During  the  tedious  delays  of  the  year  when  a  young 
wife  nurses  a  child  for  the  first  time,  he  doubtless 
worked  with  zeal ;  but  now  and  then  he  sought  dis- 
traction in  society.  The  house  to  which  he  went 
most  willingly  was  that  of  the  Duchesse  de  Carig- 
liano,  who  had  finally  attracted  the  celebrated 
artist.  When  Augustine  had  recovered  and  her  son 
no  longer  required  those  constant  attentions  that 
deprive  a  mother  of  the  pleasures  of  society,  Theo- 
dore set  his  heart  upon  testing  the  gratification  of 
amour  propre  bestowed  by  society  upon  a  man  when 
he  appears  with  a  beautiful  woman,  an  object  of 


THE   CAT  AND   RACKET  6l 

envy  and  admiration.  To  make  her  appearance  in 
salons  with  all  the  eclat  borrowed  from  her  hus- 
band's fame,  to  see  the  jealousy  of  other  women, 
was  a  new  source  of  pleasure  to  Augustine;  but  it 
was  the  last  reflex  of  his  conjugal  happiness.  She 
began  by  offending  her  husband's  vanity,  when,  in 
spite  of  fruitless  efforts,  she  betrayed  her  ignorance, 
the  impropriety  of  her  language,  and  the  narrow- 
ness of  her  ideas.  Sommervieux's  temperament, 
restrained  for  nearly  two  and  a  half  y^ars  by  the 
first  transports  of  love,  now  resumed  with  a  tran- 
quillity of  a  less  recent  acquisition,  the  habits  and 
inclinations  which  had  been  for  a  while  diverted 
from  their  course.  Poetry,  painting,  and  the  ex- 
quisite delights  of  imagination  assert  indefeasible 
rights  over  lofty  minds.  These  exigencies  of  a 
forceful  soul  had  not  been  suppressed  these  two 
years,  they  had  only  found  new  pastures.  When 
the  fields  of  Love  had  been  overrun  and  the  artist, 
childlike,  had  so  greedily  gathered  the  roses  and 
cornflowers  that  he  did  not  see  that  his  hands  could 
hold  no  more,  the  scene  changed.  If  the  artist 
showed  his  wife  the  sketches  of  his  most  beautiful 
compositions,  she  would  exclaim  just  as  old  Guil- 
laume  might  have  done:  "How  pretty!"  This 
lukewarm  admiration  did  not  spring  from  a  con- 
scientious perception,  but  from  a  loving,  implicit 
trust  Augustine  preferred  one  look  to  the  most 
beautiful  picture.  The  only  loftiness  she  recog- 
nized was  that  of  the  heart.  Finally,  Theodore 
could  no  longer  shut  his  eyes  to  a  cruel  truth;  his 


62  THE  HOUSE  OF 

wife  was  insensible  to  poetry,  she  did  not  inhabit 
his  sphere,  she  did  not  follow  him  in  all  his  ca- 
prices, in  his  improvisations,  his  joys  or  sorrows;  she 
walked  in  a  commonplace  way  in  a  substantial 
world,  whilst  he  was  in  the  clouds.  Ordinary  peo- 
ple cannot  appreciate  the  constant  sufferings  of  a 
being,  who,  united  to  another  by  the  closest  of  all 
intimacies,  is  continually  forced  to  suppress  the 
most  valuable  expansions  of  his  mind  and  to  restore 
to  nothingness  the  images  that  a  magic  power  forces 
him  to  create.  For  such  a  one,  this  torture  is  all 
the  more  cruel,  because  the  feeling  that  he  bears  to 
his  companion  demands,  as  its  first  precept,  that 
they  should  never  conceal  anything  from  each  other, 
and  that  the  effusions  of  the  mind  should  mingle  as 
well  as  the  outpourings  of  the  soul.  The  prompt- 
ings of  nature  are  not  to  be  disobeyed  with  im- 
punity; she  is  as  inexorable  as  necessity,  which  is 
most  assuredly  a  kind  of  social  nature.  Sommer- 
vieux  took  refuge  in  the  peace  and  silence  of  his 
studio,  hoping  that  the  habit  of  living  with  artists 
might  improve  his  wife  and  develop  in  her  the 
torpid  germs  of  a  higher  intelligence  which  some 
superior  people  believe  to  be  pre-existing  in  every- 
one; but  Augustine  was  too  sincerely  religious  not 
to  be  alarmed  by  the  tone  of  the  artists.  At  the 
first  dinner  given  by  Theodore,  she  heard  a  young 
artist  say  with  that  childish  airiness  that  she 
failed  to  see,  and  that  absolves  a  jest  from  any 
profanity: 

"But,  madame,  is  not  your  Heaven  more  beautiful 


THE  CAT  AND   RACKET  63 

than  Raphael's    Trarisfigtiraiion?    Well,  I  am  tired 
of  looking  at  it." 

So  Augustine  exhibited  in  this  witty  society  a 
spirit  of  diffidence  that  escaped  nobody's  observa- 
tion; she  embarrassed  everyone.  An  uncomfortable 
artist  is  merciless;  he  either  flies  or  he  scoffs. 
Amongst  her  other  absurdities  Madame  Guillaume 
had  always  exaggerated  the  dignity  which  she  sup- 
posed suitable  to  a  married  woman;  and  though 
often  teased  about  it,  Augustine  could  not  refrain 
from  a  weak  imitation  of  the  maternal  prudishness. 
This  exaggeration  of  modesty  that  virtuous  women 
do  not  always  avoid,  inspired  several  pencilled 
epigrams,  whose  innocent  playfulness  was  in  too 
good  taste  to  offend  Sommervieux.  Even  had  these 
jokes  been  a  little  more  cruel,  they  would  after  all 
only  have  been  retaliations  practised  upon  him  by 
his  friends.  But  to  a  soul  so  easily  susceptible  to 
outside  impressions,  nothing  is  a  trifle.  And  so  he 
insensibly  felt  a  coldness  that  could  but  go  on  in- 
creasing. To  attain  conjugal  happiness  a  mountain 
has  to  be  scaled  where  a  narrow  platform  is  close  to 
a  very  steep  and  slippery  bank,  and  the  artist's 
love  was  rapidly  descending  it.  He  deemed  his 
wife  incapable  of  appreciating  the  moral  considera- 
tions which,  in  his  own  eyes,  justified  his  singular 
attitude  towards  her,  and  believed  himself  perfectly 
innocent  in  hiding  from  her  the  thoughts  that  she 
could  not  understand  and  the  deviations  that  do  not 
come  under  the  jurisdiction  of  a  bourgeois  con- 
science.     Augustine    shut    herself    up   in   silent. 


64  THE  HOUSE  OF 

gloomy  sorrow.  These  secret  feelings  placed  a  veil 
between  husband  and  wife  that  could  but  thicken 
day  by  day.  Although  her  husband  never  failed  to 
show  her  every  consideration,  Augustine  could  not 
help  quivering  when  she  saw  him  reserving  for 
society  the  treasures  of  talent  and  grace  that  he  had 
formerly  laid  at  her  feet.  Very  soon  she  put  a  fatal 
construction  upon  the  witty  conversations  society 
holds  upon  the  inconstancy  of  men.  She  did  not  com- 
plain, but  her  attitude  was  equivalent  to  reproaches. 
Three  years  after  her  marriage,  this  young  and 
pretty  woman,  who  drove  by  so  radiantly  in  her 
brilliant  carriage,  who  lived  in  a  sphere  of  glory 
and  wealth  envied  by  careless  people  incapable  of 
justly  estimating  the  conditions  of  life,  was  a  prey 
to  terrible  grief ;  her  color  faded,  she  reflected  and 
compared;  and  then  misery  revealed  to  her  the  first 
texts  of  experience.  She  resolved  bravely  to  con- 
tinue her  round  of  duties,  hoping  that  this  generous 
conduct  might  sooner  or  later  restore  her  husband's 
love;  but  it  was  not  so.  WhenSommervieux,  weary 
with  work,  came  out  of  his  studio,  Augustine  could 
not  hide  her  work  so  quickly  but  that  the  painter 
could  see  that  his  wife  was  mending  his  own  and 
the  house  linen  with  all  the  care  of  a  thrifty  house- 
keeper. She  generously  and  uncomplainingly 
provided  the  money  for  all  her  husband's  extrava- 
gances ;  but,  in  her  desire  to  preserve  her  beloved 
Theodore's  wealth  she  practised  economy  herself, 
as  well  as  in  certain  details  of  the  domestic  admin- 
istration.    This  behavior  is  incompatible  with  the 


THE  CAT  AND  RACKET  65 

carelessness   of   artists,  who,  at  the   end   of  their 
careers,  have  so  much  enjoyed  life,  that  they  never 
seek  the  cause  of  their  ruin.     There  is  no  need  to 
follow  each  degradation  of   color  with  which  the 
brilliant  tint  of  their  honeymoon  disappeared  and 
left  them  in  a  great  darkness.     One  evening,  the 
wretched  Augustine,  who  had  for  a  long  time  heard 
her  husband  speaking  enthusiastically  of  the  Duch- 
esse  de  Carigliano,   received  from  a  friend   some 
maliciously  charitable  warnings  as  to  the  nature  of 
the  attachment  that  Sommervieux  entertained  for 
this    celebrated   coquette   of   the    Imperial    Court. 
Augustine  saw  herself  at  twenty-one,  in  all  the  flush 
of  youth  and  beauty,  abandoned  for  a  woman  of 
thirty-six.     Conscious  of  her  misery  in  the  midst 
of  society   and   entertainments   that  to   her   were 
empty,  the  poor  little  thing  no  longer  cared  for  the 
admiration     she     excited,    or    for    the    envy   she 
inspired.       Her     face     wore    a    new    expression. 
Melancholy  had  laid  upon  her  features  the  meekness 
of  resignation  and  the  pallor  of  a  despised  love.     It 
was  not  long  before  she  was  courted  by  the  most 
fascinating  men;  but  she  remained  alone  and  vir- 
tuous.    Two  or  three  disdainful  words  dropped  by 
her  husband,  filled  her  with  an  incredible  despair. 
A  fatal  glimmer  dimly  revealed  to  her  the  deficiency 
of  touch  that  in  consequence  of  her  poor  education, 
hindered  the  perfect  union  of  her  soul  with  Theo- 
dore's; she  loved  him  well  enough  to  forgive  him 
and  condemn  herself.     She  wept  tears  of  blood  and 
recognized  too  late  that  there  can  be  misalliances  of 
5 


66  THE  HOUSE  OF 

mind  as  well  as  those  of  manner  and  rank.  In  mus- 
ing upon  the  early  delights  of  her  union  she  summed 
up  the  extent  of  the  past  happiness  and  admitted  to 
herself  that  so  rich  a  harvest  of  love  was  a  whole 
lifetime  that  could  only  be  expiated  by  misery. 
However,  she  was  too  sincerely  in  love  to  lose  all 
hope.  Accordingly,  she  ventured  at  twenty-one 
years  old  to  educate  herself  and  to  make  her  imagi- 
nation at  least  worthy  of  the  one  she  admired. 

"If   I   am  not  a  poet,"  she  said  to  herself,  "I 
shall  at  least  understand  poetry." 

And  then,  displaying  all  the  force  of  will  and 
energy  which  all  women  possess  when  they  love, 
Madame  de  Sommervieux  attempted  to  change  her 
character,  her  manners  and  her  customs;  but,  whilst 
devouring  books  and  studying  with  zeal,  she  only 
succeeded  in  becoming  less  ignorant  Versatility  of 
mind  and  charms  of  conversation  are  a  gift  of  nature 
or  the  results  of  education  from  the  cradle.  She 
could  appreciate  music  and  enjoy  it,  but  sang  with- 
out taste.  She  understood  literature  and  the 
beauties  of  poetry,  but  it  was  too  late  to  instil  them 
into  her  rebellious  memory.  She  listened  with 
pleasure  to  the  conversations  of  society  to  which 
she  herself  contributed  nothing  brilliant.  Her 
religious  ideas  and  childish  prejudices  prevented 
the  complete  emancipation  of  her  intelligence.  In 
short,  a  prejudice  against  her  had  insinuated  itself 
into  Theodore's  mind  which  she  could  not  overcome. 
The  artist  scoffed  at  those  who  praised  his  wife, 
and   his  jests  were   often    enough  justifiable;    he 


THE   CAT  AND   RACKET  67 

overawed  this  pathetic  young  creature  to  such  a 
degree  that  in  his  presence,  or  when  they  were  tete- 
a-tgte,  she  trembled.  Embarrassed  by  her  over- 
whelming desire  to  please,  she  felt  her  intelligence 
and  acquirements  vanishing  into  mere  sentiment. 
Her  constancy  even  annoyed  this  faithless  husband, 
who  seemed  to  be  urging  her  to  make  mistakes  by 
accusing  her  virtue  of  insensibility.  Augustine 
vainly  strove,  against  her  judgment,  to  adapt  herself 
to  her  husband's  caprices  and  whims,  and  to  devote 
herself  to  his  egotistical  vanity;  she  did  not  reap 
the  benefit  of  her  sacrifices.  It  may  be  that  they 
had  both  missed  the  moment  which  might  have 
brought  them  together.  One  day  the  young  wife's 
over-sensitive  heart  received  one  of  those  shocks 
that  wrench  the  bonds  of  sentiment  so  hard,  that  it 
seems  as  if  they  must  be  broken.  She  isolated  her- 
self. But  soon  a  fatal  idea  prompted  her  to  seek 
consolation  and  advice  in  the  bosom  of  her  family. 

So  one  morning  she  turned  in  the  direction  of  the 
grotesque  fagade  of  the  humble  and  silent  house 
where  her  childhood  had  been  passed.  She  sighed 
as  she  looked  at  the  window  from  which,  one  day, 
she  had  blown  the  first  kiss  to  him  who  to-day 
brought  as  much  fame  as  misery  into  her  life. 
Nothing  was  changed  in  the  retreat  where,  however, 
the  drapery  business  was  reviving.  Augustine's 
sister  occupied  her  mother's  place  at  the  old-fash- 
ioned desk.  The  unhappy  girl  met  her  brother-in- 
law  with  his  pen  behind  his  ear,  but  he  seemed 
almost  too  busy  to  listen  to  her;    the  formidable 


68  THE  HOUSE  OF 

signals  of  a  general  inventory  were  going  on 
around  him;  and  so  he  left  her  with  an  excuse. 
She  was  somewhat  coldly  received  by  her  sister, 
who  bore  her  some  ill-will.  For  Augustine,  radiant 
in  her  pretty  carriage,  had  only  paid  her  sister  flying 
visits.  The  wife  of  the  prudent  Lebas,  thinking  that 
money  was  the  primary  object  of  this  morning  call, 
tried  to  maintain  a  reserve  that  made  Augustine 
smile  more  than  once.  The  painter's  wife  per- 
ceived that,  save  for  lappets  in  the  cap,  her  mother 
had  found  in  Virginie  a  successor  who  kept  up  the 
ancient  credit  of  the  Cat  and  Racket.  At  lunch  she 
noticed  certain  changes  in  the  regime  of  the  house 
that  did  credit  to  Joseph  Lebas's  good  sense;  the 
clerks  remained  for  dessert,  they  were  allowed  to 
speak,  and  the  abundance  of  food  indicated  comfort 
without  luxury.  The  young  beauty  came  upon  some 
tickets  for  a  box  at  the  "Frangais, "  where  she 
remembered  having  seen  her  sister  from  time  to 
time.  The  richness  of  the  cashmere  shawl  worn 
by  Madame  Lebas  attested  the  generosity  shown  to 
her  by  her  husband.  In  fact,  husband  and  wife  pro- 
gressed with  the  times.  Augustine  was  quickly 
filled  with  emotion  when,  during  two-thirds  of  the 
day,  she  observed  the  even  happiness — not  enthu- 
siastic it  is  true,  but,  on  the  other  hand,  unruffled — 
that  this  well -assorted  couple  enjoyed.  They 
looked  upon  life  as  a  commercial  enterprise  in 
which  it  behooved  them,  before  everything  else,  to 
do  credit  to  their  business.  Meeting  with  no  ex- 
treme love  from  her  husband,  the  wife  set  herself  to 


THE  CAT  AND  RACKET  69 

create  it.  Led  unconsciously  to  respect  and  cherish 
Virginie,  the  time  that  happiness  took  to  dawn  for 
Joseph  Lebas  and  his  wife  was  a  pledge  of  duration. 
So  when  the  plaintive  Augustine  disclosed  her  mis- 
erable situation  she  had  to  endure  the  deluge  of 
commonplaces  with  which  the  ethics  of  the  Rue 
Saint-Denis  supplied  her  sister. 

"The  mischief  is  done,  my  wife,"  said  Joseph 
Lebas,  "we  must  try  to  give  good  advice  to  our 
sister." 

And  then  the  skilful  merchant  thoroughly  ana- 
lyzed the  resources  that  the  laws  and  customs  might 
offer  as  an  escape  for  Augustine  in  this  crisis;  he 
numbered  all  the  considerations,  so  to  speak,  ar- 
ranged them  according  to  their  efficiency  in  a 
species  of  category,  as  if  it  were  a  question  of  mer- 
chandise of  divers  qualities ;  then  he  balanced  them, 
weighed  them,  and  concluded  by  explaining  the 
necessity  for  his  sister-in-law  to  take  a  strong 
course,  which  did  not  satisfy  the  love  she  still  felt 
for  her  husband;  indeed,  this  sentiment  revived  in 
all  its  force  when  she  heard  Joseph  Lebas  talk  of 
legal  proceedings.  Augustine  thanked  her  two 
friends,  and  returned  home  more  undecided  than  she 
had  been  before  she  consulted  them.  She  then  ven- 
tured to  the  old  house  in  the  Rue  du  Colombier, 
with  the  intention  of  confiding  her  misfortunes  to 
her  father  and  mother,  for  she  was  like  a  sick  per- 
son who,  in  a  state  of  despair,  tries  all  receipts  and 
even  relies  upon  the  remedies  of  an  old  woman. 
The  old  couple  welcomed  their  daughter  with  an 


70  THE  HOUSE  OF 

effusion  that  touched  her.  Her  visit  brought  them 
a  distraction  which  to  them  was  worth  a  fortune. 
For  four  years  they  had  gone  through  life  like 
mariners  without  aim  or  compass.  Seated  by  their 
fireside  they  would  remind  each  other  of  all  the  dis- 
asters of  the  Maximum,  their  bygone  purchases  of 
cloth,  the  way  in  which  they  had  avoided  bank- 
ruptcy, and,  above  all,  the  celebrated  failure  of 
Lecoq,  old  Guillaume's  Battle  of  Marengo.  And 
then,  when  they  had  exhausted  the  old  lawsuits, 
they  would  recapitulate  the  additions  to  their  most 
profitable  inventories,  and  would  tell  each  other 
once  more  the  old  stories  of  the  Quartier  Saint- 
Denis.  At  two  o'clock,  old  Guillaume  would  go 
and  cast  an  eye  over  the  establishment  of  the  Cat 
and  Racket ;  on  his  way  home,  he  would  stop  at  all 
the  shops,  formerly  his  rivals,  whose  young  pro- 
prietors hoped  to  draw  the  old  merchant  into  some 
hazardous  discount,  which,  as  was  his  wont,  he 
never  positively  refused.  Two  good  Normandy 
horses  were  dying  of  fat  in  the  stables  of  the  man- 
sion ;  they  were  never  used  except  to  draw  Madame 
Guillaume  every  Sunday  to  the  High  Mass  of  her 
parish.  Three  times  a  week  this  worthy  couple 
held  open  house.  Thanks  to  the  influence  of  his 
son-in-law  Sommervieux,  old  Guillaume  had  been 
appointed  member  of  the  consulting  committee  for 
the  clothing  of  the  troops.  Since  her  husband's 
promotion  to  such  an  important  place  in  the  admin- 
istration, Madame  Guillaume  determined  to  keep  up 
appearances ;  her  apartments  were  crowded  with  so 


THE   CAT  AND   RACKET  J I 

many  gold  and  silver  ornaments,  and  tasteless  but 
certainly  valuable  furniture,  that  the  simplest  room 
resembled  a  chapel.  Economy  and  extravagance 
seemed  to  be  struggling  in  each  accessory  of  this 
house.  One  might  have  thought  that  Monsieur 
Guillaume  had  invested  in  silver  even  down  to 
the  acquisition  of  a  candlestick.  In  the  middle  of 
this  bazaar,  the  wealth  of  which  betrayed  the 
leisure  of  husband  and  wife,  Sommervieux's  cele- 
brated picture  had  been  given  the  place  of  honor, 
and  was  the  comfort  of  Monsieur  and  Madame  Guil- 
laume, who,  twenty  times  a  day,  would  turn  their 
spectacled  eyes  towards  this  likeness  of  their  former 
existence,  which  for  them  had  been  so  active  and 
amusing.  The  aspect  of  this  house  and  these  rooms 
where  all  was  redolent  of  old  age  and  mediocrity; 
the  spectacle  presented  by  these  two  beings  who 
seemed  to  be  stranded  upon  a  golden  rock  far  from 
the  world  and  all  life-giving  thought,  surprised 
Augustine;  she  was  now  contemplating  the  second 
part  of  the  picture,  the  first  part  of  which  had  struck 
her  at  Joseph  Lebas's;  that  of  a  restless  though  in- 
active life,  a  sort  of  mechanical  instinctive  existence 
like  a  beaver's;  she  then  felt  an  indescribable 
pride  in  her  sorrows,  in  the  thought  that  they  had 
sprung  from  a  happiness  of  eighteen  months  which 
in  her  eyes  was  worth  a  thousand  such  lives  as  this 
whose  emptiness  seemed  so  horrible  to  her.  But 
she  concealed  this  somewhat  uncharitable  sentiment, 
and  exerted  for  her  old  parents  all  the  fresh  charms 
of  her  mind  and  the  tender  coquetries  revealed  to 


72  THE  HOUSE  OF 

her  by  love,  and  disposed  them  to  listen  favorably 
to  her  matrimonial  grievances.  Old  people  have  a 
weakness  for  this  particular  kind  of  confidence. 
Madame  Guillaume  insisted  upon  hearing  the 
minutest  details  of  this  strange  life,  which,  to  her, 
seemed  almost  fictitious.  The  Travels  of  the  Baron 
de  la  Hoiitan,  which  she  was  always  beginning  and 
never  finishing,  told  her  of  nothing  more  extraordi- 
nary respecting  the  Canadian  savages. 

"What!  child!  your  husband  shuts  himself  up 
with  naked  women  and  you  are  simpleton  enough 
to  believe  that  he  draws  them  ?" 

After  this  remark  the  grandmother  placed  her 
glasses  upon  a  little  workbox,  shook  her  skirts  and 
folded  her  hands  upon  her  knees  that  were  raised 
on  a  footwarmer,  her  favorite  pedestal. 

"But,  mother,  all  artists  are  obliged  to  have 
models." 

"He  took  good  care  not  to  tell  us  all  that  when 
he  proposed  to  you.  Had  I  known  it,  I  would 
never  have  given  my  daughter  to  a  man  who 
followed  such  a  trade.  Religion  forbids  such  hor- 
rors, it  is  immoral.  At  what  hour  did  you  say  he 
comes  in?" 

"Well,  at  one  or  two  o'clock — " 

Husband  and  wife  looked  at  each  other  in  pro- 
found astonishment. 

"Does  he  gamble  then?"  said  Monsieur  Guil- 
laume, "in  my  time  it  was  only  gamblers  who  came 
home  so  late." 

Augustine's  face  repudiated  this  accusation. 


THE   CAT  AND   RACKET  73 

"He  must  make  you  spend  some  cruel  nights 
waiting  for  him,"  continued  Madame  Guillaume, 
"but  no,  you  go  to  bed,  do  you  not?  And  when  he 
has  lost,  the  monster  wakes  you  up." 

"No,  mother,  on  the  contrary,  he  is  sometimes 
very  cheerful.  Very  often  even,  when  it  is  fine,  he 
wants  me  to  get  up  and  go  in  the  woods." 

"In  the  woods,  at  those  hours?  You  must  have 
very  small  apartments  that  he  should  not  be  con- 
tent with  his  room,  or  his  salon,  and  must  run  out 
to — But  the  rascal  proposes  these  excursions  to  give 
you  cold.  He  wants  to  get  rid  of  you.  Did  one 
ever  see  a  married  man,  with  a  peaceful  trade,  gal- 
loping round  like  this  as  if  he  were  a  surly  dog?  " 

"But,  mother,  you  do  not  understand  that  he 
needs  excitement  to  develop  his  talents.  He  loves 
scenes  that — " 

"Ah!  I'd  make  some  fine  scenes  for  him,  I 
would!"  cried  Madame  Guillaume,  interrupting 
her  daughter,  "how  can  you  keep  house  with  such 
a  man?  To  begin  with  I  object  to  his  drinking 
nothing  but  water.  It  is  not  healthy.  Why  does 
he  object  to  seeing  women  eat?  What  an  extraor- 
dinary creature!  But  he  must  be  mad — All  that 
you  tell  us  is  impossible.  A  man  cannot  leave  his 
house  without  breathing  a  word  and  only  return  ten 
days  afterwards.  He  told  you  that  he  went  to 
Dieppe  to  paint  the  sea;  does  one  paint  the  sea?  He 
tells  you  nonsensical  stories." 

Augustine  was  opening  her  lips  to  defend  her 
husband,  but  Madame  Guillaume  silenced  her  with 


74  THE  HOUSE  OF 

a  gesture  which  from  force  of  habit  she  obeyed,  and 
her  mother  exclaimed  sharply: 

"Look  here,  don't  talk  to  me  of  such  a  man!  he 
has  never  set  foot  inside  a  church  except  to  stare 
at  you  and  to  marry  you.  People  without  religion 
are  capable  of  anything.  Has  Guillaume  ever  seen 
fit  to  hide  anything  from  me;  to  remain  three  days 
without  saying  a  word  and  then  to  chatter  like  a 
blind  magpie?" 

"My  dear  mother,  you  judge  clever  people  too 
harshly.  If  they  had  the  same  ideas  as  other  peo- 
ple they  would  no  longer  be  talented." 

"Well  then,  let  talented  people  stay  at  home  and 
not  marry.  What!  a  talented  man  makes  his  wife 
miserable!  and  because  he  has  talent  it  is  right.? 
Talent!  talent!  It  does  not  require  much  talent  to 
blow  hot  and  cold  every  minute  as  he  does,  to  cut 
people  short,  to  behave  cruelly  at  home,  to  drive 
you  to  your  wit's  end,  to  prevent  a  woman  amusing 
herself  until  monsieur  is  in  a  good  temper,  to  be  sad 
when  he  is  sad." 

"But,  mother,  the  characteristic  of  these  imagi- 
nations— " 

"And  what  are  these  imaginations?"  resumed 
Madame  Guillaume,  again  interrupting  her  daugh- 
ter. "Faith!  he  has  some  fme  ones.  What  is  a  man 
who  is  suddenly  seized  with  a  whim  for  eating 
nothing  but  vegetables,  without  a  doctor's  advice? 
Still,  if  it  were  for  religion,  his  diet  might  be  of 
some  good  to  nim ;  but  he  has  no  more  than  a 
Huguenot.     Has  one  ever  known  a  man  who  loves 


THE  CAT  AND   RACKET  75 

his  horses,  as  he  does,  more  than  his  fellow  crea- 
tures, curl  his  hair  like  a  heathen,  lay  statues 
under  muslin,  and  shut  up  the  windows  by  day  so 
as  to  work  by  lamplight?  Oh!  don't  talk  to  me; 
if  he  were  not  so  grossly  immoral  he  would  be  fit 
for  the  madhouse.  Consult  Monsieur  Loraux,  the 
Vicar  of  Saint-Sulpice,  ask  his  opinion  of  all  this, 
and  he  will  tell  you  that  your  husband  does  not  be- 
have like  a  Christian — " 

"Oh!  mother  can  you  believe — " 

"Yes,  I  do  believe  it!  You  loved  him  and  were 
blind  to  these  things.  But  about  the  early  days  of 
his  marriage,  I  recollected  having  met  him  in  the 
Champs-Elysees.  He  was  riding.  Well,  at  times 
he  would  go  at  full  gallop,  then  he  would  stop  and 
go  at  a  walk.  I  then  said  to  myself,  'There  goes 
a  man  who  has  no  judgment'  " 

"Ah!"  cried  Monsieur  Guillaume,  rubbing  his 
hands,  "how  right  I  was  to  insist  upon  your  having 
a  separate  estate  from  that  oddity !" 

When  Augustine  was  imprudent  enough  to  relate 
the  real  grievances  that  she  had  to  disclose  against 
her  husband,  the  aged  couple  were  mute  with  indig- 
nation. The  word  "divorce"  was  very  soon  pro- 
nounced by  Madame  Guillaume.  At  the  mention 
of  divorce  the  indolent  merchant  became  like  one 
awakened.  Stimulated  by  his  love  for  his  daughter 
as  much  as  by  the  excitement  that  the  prospect  of 
a  lawsuit  would  bring  into  his  uneventful  life,  old 
Guillaume  began  to  speak. 

He  headed  the  application  for  divorce,  directed  it, 


76  THE  HOUSE  OF 

and  almost  pleaded,  he  offered  to  be  responsible 
for  all  the  expenses,  to  see  the  judges,  solicitors 
and  barristers,  to  move  heaven  and  earth.  Madame 
de  Sommervieux,  terrified,  refused  her  father's  help, 
said  that  she  would  not  be  separated  from  her  hus- 
band were  she  ten  times  more  unhappy,  and  spoke 
no  more  of  her  troubles.  After  her  parents  had 
overwhelmed  her  with  all  the  little  dumb  and  com- 
forting attentions  with  which  they  vainly  attempted 
to  compensate  her  for  her  aching  heart,  Augustine 
left,  feeling  how  impossible  it  is  to  obtain  a  fair 
judgment  for  great  men  from  those  of  a  weaker  in- 
telligence. She  learnt  that  a  wife  had  better  con- 
ceal from  the  whole  world,  even  from  parents,  those 
troubles  that  so  rarely  meet  with  any  sympathy. 
The  storms  and  sufferings  in  higher  spheres  are 
only  appreciated  by  the  lofty  spirits  who  inhabit 
them.  We  can  only  be  judged  in  everything  by 
our  equals. 

Poor  Augustine  found  herself  thus  once  more  in 
the  chilly  atmosphere  of  her  home,  abandoned  to 
the  horror  of  her  thoughts.  She  no  longer  cared  to 
study  since  it  had  failed  to  restore  her  husband's 
love.  Initiated  into  the  mysteries  of  these  fiery 
souls,  but  deprived  of  their  resources,  she  shared 
abundantly  in  their  sufferings  without  partaking  of 
their  pleasures.  She  was  disgusted  with  society 
which  seemed  to  her  mean  and  petty  beside  the 
issues  of  passion.  In  fact,  her  life  was  a  failure. 
One  evening,  she  was  struck  with  a  thought  that 
came  like  a  heavenly  ray  to  shine  upon  her  gloomy 


THE  CAT  AND   RACKET  ^^ 

sorrow.  Only  a  heart  as  pure  and  virtuous  as  her 
own  could  have  been  pleased  with  this  idea.  She 
resolved  to  go  to  the  Duchesse  de  Carigliano,  not  to 
ask  her  to  give  back  her  husband's  affections,  but 
to  acquaint  herself  with  the  wiles  that  had  stolen 
them  away,  to  interest  this  proud  woman  of  the 
world  in  the  mother  of  her  friend's  children,  to 
soften  her,  and  make  her  a  party  to  her  future  hap' 
piness  as  she  now  was  the  instrument  of  her  present 
misery.  So  one  day,  the  timid  Augustine,  armed 
with  a  supernatural  courage,  drove  in  her  carriage 
at  two  o'clock  to  attempt  an  entry  into  the  boudoir 
of  this  famous  coquette,  who  was  invisible  up  to 
that  hour.  Madame  de  Sommervieux  was  not  yet 
familiar  with  the  old  and  sumptuous  houses  of  the 
Faubourg  Saint-Germain.  When  she  traversed  the 
stately  vestibules,  the  grand  staircases,  the  immense 
reception  rooms,  filled  with  flowers  in  spite  of  the 
severity  of  the  winter,  and  decorated  with  the  taste 
peculiar  to  women  who  are  born  in  the  midst  of 
wealth  or  with  the  distinguished  ways  of  the  aris- 
tocracy, Augustine's  heart  grew  terribly  heavy; 
she  envied  the  secret  of  this  elegance  of  which  she 
had  never  had  a  notion,  she  breathed  an  air  of 
grandeur  which  explained  to  her  the  attraction  this 
house  possessed  for  her  husband.  When  she 
reached  the  private  apartments  of  the  duchess,  she 
felt  jealousy  and  a  kind  of  despair  mingling  with 
her  admiration  of  the  voluptuous  arrangements  of 
furniture,  draperies  and  hangings.  Here,  disorder 
was  a  charm ;  and  luxury  affected  a  species  of  scorn 


78  THE   HOUSE  OF 

of  wealth.  The  perfumes  that  filled  this  soft 
atmosphere  pleased  the  sense  of  smell  without 
offending  it.  The  accessories  of  the  room  harmon- 
ized with  a  view,  obtained  through  a  reflecting  mir- 
ror, of  the  lawn  of  a  garden  planted  with  green 
trees.  It  was  all  fascinating,  with  no  perceptible 
effort  The  genius  of  the  mistress  of  these  apart- 
ments pervaded  the  whole  salon  in  which  Augustine 
was  waiting.  She  tried  to  guess  the  character  of 
her  rival  from  the  appearance  of  the  things  scattered 
about;  but  there  was  something  impenetrable  alike 
in  the  confusion  and  the  symmetry,  and  to  the  sim- 
ple Augustine  they  were  secrets.  All  that  she 
could  gather  from  them  was  that  the  duchess  was 
as  clever  as  she  was  womanly.  Then  a  sad  thought 
came  to  her. 

"Alas!  can  it  be  true,"  she  said  to  herself,  "that 
a  loving  and  simple  heart  is  not  enough  for  an 
artist,  and,  to  balance  the  weight  of  these  great 
minds,  must  they  be  united  to  feminine  minds  that 
are  as  powerful  as  their  own  ?  Had  1  been  brought 
up  like  this  siren,  at  least  our  weapons  would  have 
been  equal  in  the  fight." 

"But  1  am  not  at  home." 

These  curt,  sharp  words,  although  spoken  in  a 
low  voice  in  the  adjoining  boudoir,  were  overheard 
by  Augustine,  whose  heart  quaked. 

"But  the  lady  is  there,"  answered  the  lady's 
maid. 

"How  stupid  you  are;  show  her  in!"  said  the 
duchess  whose  softened  voice  suddenly  assumed  the 


THE  CAT  AND   RACKET  79 

kindly  accent  of  good  breeding.     Evidently  she  then 
wished  to  be  overheard. 

Augustine  advanced  timidly. 

At  the  far  end  of  this  cool  boudoir  she  saw  the 
duchess  voluptuously  reclining  on  a  green  velvet 
ottoman  placed  in  the  centre  of  a  kind  of  semicircle 
formed  by  soft  folds  of  muslin  stretched  upon  a  yel- 
low background.  Some  gilded  bronze  ornaments 
arranged  with  exquisite  taste  still  further  enriched 
this  species  of  dais  upon  which  the  duchess  was 
resting  like  some  antique  statue.  The  deep  color  of 
the  velvet  enhanced  every  means  of  seduction. 
The  subdued  light,  so  favorable  to  her  beauty, 
seemed  more  of  a  reflection  than  a  light.  Some 
rare  flowers  raised  their  scented  heads  from  the 
richest  Sevres  vases.  At  the  moment  this  scene 
met  Augustine's  astonished  eyes,  she  was  treading 
so  softly  that  she  was  in  time  to  intercept  a  look 
from  the  enchantress.  This  look  seemed  to  say  to 
some  one  at  first  unnoticed  by  the  painter's  wife: 
"Stay  here,  you  will  see  a  pretty  woman  and  make 
it  less  tiresome  for  me."  When  she  perceived 
Augustine  the  duchess  rose  and  made  her  sit  by 
her  side. 

"To  what  do  I  owe  the  honor  of  this  visit,  ma- 
dame?"  she  asked  with  a  charming  smile. 

"Why  so  much  insincerity?"  thought  Augustine, 
who  only  bent  her  head  in  answer. 

The  silence  was  forced.  The  young  wife  saw 
before  her  one  witness  too  many  to  this  scene. 
This  person  was  the  youngest,  the  most  elegant,  and 


80  THE  HOUSE  OF 

best  formed  colonel  in  the  army.  His  plain 
clothes  set  off  the  graces  of  his  person.  His  lively, 
youthful,  and  just  then  very  expressive  face  was 
rendered  still  more  animated  by  small  moustaches 
black  as  jet,  twirled  up  at  the  ends,  a  thick  imperial, 
carefully  combed,  whiskers  and  a  forest  of  rather 
untidy  hair.  He  was  toying  with  a  riding  whip  with 
a  display  of  ease  and  freedom  that  became  the  satis- 
fied expression  of  his  physiognomy,  as  well  as  the 
elegance  of  his  dress;  the  ribbons  in  his  buttonhole 
were  carelessly  tied  and  he  seemed  much  more 
proud  of  his  appearance  than  of  his  courage. 
Augustine  glanced  from  the  duchess  to  the  colonel 
with  an  appealing  look  that  was  understood. 

"Well,  good-bye,  d'Aiglemont;  we  shall  meet 
again  in  the  Bois  de  Boulogne." 

The  siren  said  this  as  if  it  were  the  result  of  an 
agreement  prior  to  Augustine's  arrival.  She 
accompanied  the  words  with  a  threatening  look 
which  perhaps  the  officer  deserved  for  the  admiration 
he  expressed  in  contemplating  the  modest  flower  who 
contrasted  so  well  with  the  proud  duchess.  The 
young  dandy  bowed  in  silence,  turned  on  his  heels 
and  gracefully  left  the  boudoir.  Augustine,  watch- 
ing her  rival,  who  seemed  to  be  following  the  bril- 
liant officer  with  her  eyes,  surprised  in  her  glance 
a  feeling  whose  fleeting  expressions  all  women 
know.  She  reflected  with  the  deepest  sorrow  that 
her  visit  was  going  to  be  useless;  this  artificial 
duchess  was  too  greedy  of  homage  to  be  pitiful. 

"Madame,"   said   Augustine   in   broken    accents, 


THE   CAT  AND   RACKET  8l 

"the  application  that  I  am  now  about  to  make  to 
you  will  seem  to  you  very  extraordinary,  but 
despair  has  its  madness  and  ought  to  excuse  all.  I 
understand  only  too  well  why  Theodore  prefers  your 
house  to  all  others,  and  why  your  mind  exercises 
such  an  influence  over  him.  Alas!  I  only  have  to 
look  into  myself  to  fmd  more  than  sufficient  reason. 
But,  madame,  I  adore  my  husband.  Two  years 
spent  in  weeping  have  not  washed  his  image  from 
my  heart,  although  I  may  have  lost  his.  In  my 
distraction  I  dared  to  conceive  the  idea  of  pitting 
myself  against  you;  and  I  come  to  you  to  ask  by 
what  means  I  can  triumph  over  yourself.  Oh!  ma- 
dame!" cried  the  young  wife,  eagerly  seizing  the 
hand  that  her  rival  let  her  take,  "never  will  I  pray 
to  God  for  my  own  happiness  as  I  will  for  yours,  if 
you  will  help  me  to  recover, — I  do  not  say  the  love 
— but  the  friendship  of  Sommervieux.  My  only 
hope  is  in  you.  Ah!  tell  me  how  you  have  been 
able  to  please  him  and  make  him  forget  the  early 
days  of "  and  here,  Augustine,  choked  by  irre- 
pressible sobs,  was  forced  to  pause.  Ashamed  of 
her  weakness,  she  buried  her  face  in  her  handker- 
chief, which  she  drenched  with  tears. 

"Are  you  not  childish,  my  dear  little  woman?" 
said  the  duchess,  who,  won  over  by  the  novelty  of 
the  scene  and  softened  in  spite  of  herself  in  receiv- 
ing tribute  from  possibly  the  most  perfect  virtue  in 
all  Paris,  took  the  handkerchief  from  the  younger 
woman  and  herself  wiped  her  eyes,  murmuring 
caressing  monosyllables  with  a  gracious  pity. 

6 


82  THE   HOUSE  OF 

After  a  moment's  silence,  the  coquette,  impris- 
oning poor  Augustine's  pretty  hands  in  her  own, 
which  possessed  the  rare  quality  of  great  beauty 
and  power,  said  to  her  in  a  gentle,  affectionate 
voice : 

"In  the  first  place,  I  would  advise  you  not  to  cry 
like  this,  tears  are  disfiguring.  One  must  learn  to 
resign  one's  self  to  troubles  that  make  one  morbid, 
for  love  does  not  stay  long  upon  a  bed  of  sorrow. 
Melancholy  has  at  first  a  certain  charm  that  pleases, 
but  in  the  long  run  it  draws  the  features  and 
withers  the  loveliest  face.  Then,  our  tyrants  are 
selfish  enough  to  will  that  their  slaves  should 
always  be  cheerful." 

"Oh!  madame,  it  is  not  entirely  my  fault  that 
I  do  not  feel  it.  Is  it  not  dying  a  thousand  deaths 
to  see  a  cold,  lifeless,  and  indifferent  face  where 
formerly  it  beamed  with  love  and  joy?  I  do  not 
know  how  to  regulate  my  affections." 

"So  much  the  worse,  my  dear  little  woman;  but 
I  think  I  already  know  your  whole  history.  In  the 
first  place,  you  may  rest  assured  that  if  your  hus- 
band has  been  unfaithful  to  you,  I  am  not  his  ac- 
complice. If  1  set  my  heart  upon  having  him  in  my 
salon,  it  was,  I  must  confess,  from  vanity;  he  was 
famous  and  would  go  nowhere.  I  like  you  already 
too  much  to  tell  you  all  the  follies  he  has  committed 
on  my  account  I  will  only  inform  you  of  one,  be- 
cause it  will  perhaps  help  us  to  lead  him  back  to 
you  and  punish  him  for  his  audacity  to  me.  He 
will  end  by  compromising  me.     I  know  the  world 


THE   CAT  AND   RACKET  83 

too  well,  my  dear,  to  place  myself  at  the  mercy  of 
too  great  a  man.  You  may  let  them  make  love  to 
you,  but  it  is  a  mistake  to  marry  them.  We  women 
can  admire  men  of  genius  and  enjoy  them  as  we 
would  a  play,  but  live  with  them?  Never!  Why! 
it  is  like  taking  pleasure  in  going  behind  the  scenes 
at  the  opera  instead  of  enjoying  its  brilliant  illu- 
sions from  a  box.  But  with  you,  my  poor  child, 
the  mischief  is  done,  is  it  not.?  Well  then  you  must 
try  to  secure  yourself  against  tyranny." 

"Ah!  madame!  before  coming  in  here  and  seeing 
you,  I  already  recognized  several  unsuspected  arti- 
fices." 

"Well  then,  come  and  see  me  sometimes,  and  it 
will  not  be  long  before  you  master  the  science  of 
these  trifles,  which,  nevertheless,  are  rather  impor- 
tant. To  fools,  the  better  half  of  life  consists  in 
externals;  and,  as  to  that,  more  than  one  man  of 
talent  finds  himself  a  fool  in  spite  of  all  his  intelli- 
gence. But  I  dare  wager  that  you  have  never 
known  how  to  refuse  anything  to  Theodore?" 

"How  can  one  refuse  anything  to  the  man  one 
loves?" 

"Poor  little  innocent,  I  should  adore  you  for  your 
simplicity.  You  must  know  then  that  the  more  we 
love  the  less  must  we  let  a  man,  especially  a  hus- 
band, see  the  extent  of  our  passion.  It  is  the  one 
who  loves  the  most  who  is  tyrannized  over,  and, 
what  is  worse,  is  sooner  or  later  deserted.  The  one 
who  wishes  to  rule  must — " 

"What!  madame?  is  it  necessary  to  dissimulate? 


84  THE  HOUSE  OF 

calculate,  become  false,  acquire  an  artificial  charac- 
ter, and  for  always?  oh!  how  can  one  live  so? 
Can  you — ?" 

She  hesitated.     The  duchess  smiled. 

**My  dear,"  answered  the  great  lady  gravely, 
"conjugal  happiness,  at  all  times,  has  been  a  specu- 
lation, a  matter  that  requires  particular  attention. 
If  you  talk  passion  whilst  I  talk  marriage  we  shall 
never  come  to  an  understanding.  Listen  to  me," 
she  continued  in  a  confidential  tone,  "I  have  seen 
some  of  the  greatest  men  of  our  time.  Those  who 
are  married,  are  with  very  few  exceptions,  united 
to  women  who  are  nonentities.  Well,  these  very 
women  rule  them  as  we  are  ruled  by  the  Emperor, 
and,  if  they  are  not  loved,  they  are  at  least  respected. 
I  am  fond  enough  of  mysteries,  above  all,  those  that 
concern  ourselves,  to  have  amused  myself  seeking  a 
solution  to  this  enigma.  Well,  my  angel,  these 
good  wives  had  a  talent  for  analyzing  their  hus- 
bands' characters;  and  without  being  frightened, 
like  you,  at  their  superiority,  they  had  shrewdly 
remarked  the  qualities  which  they  themselves 
lacked;  and,  whether  they  really  possessed  such 
accomplishments  or  whether  they  pretended  to 
possess  them,  they  found  means  of  making  such  a 
display  of  them  to  their  husbands  that  they  ended 
by  deceiving  them.  In  short,  let  me  tell  you  once 
more  that  these  seemingly  great  souls  all  have  some 
little  grain  of  foolishness  that  we  ought  to  know 
how  to  cultivate.  By  firmly  resolving  to  govern 
them,  by  never  swerving  from  this  end,  by  bringing 


THE  CAT  AND   RACKET  8$ 

all  our  actions,  our  ideas  and  our  coquetries  to 
bear  accordingly,  we  master  these  eminently  capri- 
cious minds,  who,  from  the  very  instability  of  their 
thoughts,  give  us  the  means  wherewith  to  influence 
them." 

"Heavens!"  cried  the  horrified  wife,  "Such 
then  is  life!     It  is  a  fight — " 

"In  which  you  must  always  threaten,"  answered 
the  duchess  laughing.  "Our  power  is  entirely 
imaginary.  You  must  also  never  let  a  man  despise 
you;  it  is  impossible  to  retrieve  such  a  downfall 
save  by  odious  tactics.  Come,"  she  added,  "I  will 
give  you  a  means  with  which  you  may  enchain 
your  husband." 

She  rose  smiling  to  guide  the  young  and  innocent 
apprentice  to  these  conjugal  stratagems,  through  the 
mazes  of  her  miniature  palace.  They  both  came  to 
a  private  staircase,  communicating  with  the  recep- 
tion rooms.  When  the  duchess  had  turned  the 
secret  lock  of  the  door  she  stopped  and  looked  at 
Augustine  with  an  inimitably  arch  and  charming 
air. 

"See  here!  the  Due  de  Carigliano  adores  me. 
Well,  he  dare  not  pass  this  door  without  my 
permission.  And  he  is  a  man  who  is  accustomed  to 
commanding  thousands  of  soldiers.  He  knows  how 
to  face  a  battery;  but — before  me — he  is  afraid." 

Augustine  sighed.  They  came  to  a  sumptuous 
gallery,  where  the  duchess  led  the  artist's  wife  to 
the  portrait  Theodore  had  painted  of  Mademoiselle 
Guillaume.     At  this  sight  Augustine  gave  a  cry. 


86  THE   HOUSE  OF 

"I  knew  it  was  no  longer  at  home,"  she  said, 
"but— here!" 

"My  dear  little  one,  I  only  exacted  it  to  see  what 
degree  of  stupidity  a  man  of  genius  could  attain. 
Sooner  or  later  I  should  have  returned  it  to  you,  for 
I  did  not  expect  the  pleasure  of  seeing  the  original 
here  before  the  copy.  Whilst  we  finish  our  conver- 
sation I  will  nave  it  put  in  your  carriage.  If,  armed 
with  this  talisman,  you  are  not  mistress  of  your 
husband  for  a  hundred  years,  you  are  not  a  woman, 
and  you  deserve  your  fate!" 

Augustine  kissed  the  hand  of  the  duchess,  who 
pressed  her  to  her  heart  and  kissed  her  with  a  ten- 
derness that  was  all  the  more  lively  in  that  it  would 
be  forgotten  the  next  day.  This  scene  would  per- 
haps have  forever  ruined  the  candor  and  purity  of  a 
less  virtuous  woman  than  Augustine,  to  whom  the 
secrets  revealed  by  the  duchess  might  have  been 
equally  salutary  or  disastrous,  for  the  astute  policy 
of  the  higher  social  spheres  pleased  Augustine  no 
better  than  Joseph  Lebas's  narrow  reasoning  or 
Madame  Guillaume's  foolish  moralizing.  Strange 
result  of  the  false  positions  in  which  we  are  placed 
by  the  least  mistake  in  life!  Augustine  at  this 
moment  resembled  a  shepherd  overtaken  by  an 
avalanche  on  the  Alps;  if  he  hesitates  or  listens  to 
his  companion's  cries,  he  is  generally  lost.  In 
so  great  a  crisis  the  heart  either  breaks  or  hardens. 

Madame  de  Sommervieux  reached  home  in  a 
state  of  agitation  difficult  to  describe.  Her  con- 
versation  with   the    Duchesse   de   Carigliano   had 


THE   CAT  AND  RACKET  87 

awakened  a  crowd  of  conflicting  ideas.  It  was  like 
the  sheep  in  the  fable:  brave  enough  in  the  wolf's 
absence,  she  lectured  herself  and  laid  out  admirable 
plans  for  her  behavior;  she  imagined  a  thousand 
coquettish  stratagems ;  she  even  spoke  to  her  hus- 
band, recovering,  away  from  him,  all  the  resources 
of  the  genuine  eloquence  that  never  deserts  a 
woman;  then,  thinking  of  Theodore's  fixed,  keen 
eye,  she  already  trembled.  Her  voice  failed  when 
she  asked  if  monsieur  was  at  home.  When  she 
heard  that  he  would  not  be  in  to  dinner,  she  felt  an 
unaccountable  relief;  like  a  criminal  who  obtains 
an  appeal  against  sentence  of  death,  any  delay  no 
matter  how  short,  seemed  to  her  an  entire  lifetime. 
She  placed  the  portrait  in  her  room,  and  waited  for 
her  husband  in  all  the  agonies  of  expectation.  She 
foresaw  only  too  well  that  this  attempt  was  to  de- 
cide her  whole  future,  not  to  shiver  at  every  kind 
of  noise,  even  at  the  murmur  of  the  clock  that  only 
seemed  to  augment  her  terrors  in  timing  them.  She 
tried  to  kill  time  by  a  thousand  devices.  She  hit 
upon  the  idea  of  dressing  herself  exactly  like  the 
portrait.  Then,  knowing  her  husband's  inquiring 
nature,  she  had  her  room  lighted  in  an  unusual 
manner,  feeling  certain  that  when  he  came  in  curi- 
osity would  bring  him  to  her.  Midnight  sounded 
when,  at  the  postilion's  cry,  the  door  of  the  house 
opened.  The  artist's  carriage  rumbled  over  the 
pavement  of  the  quiet  court. 

"What  does  this  illumination  mean?"  asked  The- 
odore joyfully  entering  his  wife's  room. 


88  THE  HOUSE  OF 

Augustine  skilfully  seizing  so  favorable  a  moment, 
threw  her  arms  round  her  husband's  neck  and 
pointed  to  the  portrait. 

The  artist  stood  as  still  as  a  rock,  looking  alter- 
nately at  Augustine  and  the  tell-tale  canvas.  The 
timid  wife,  half-dead,  who  was  watching  the  chang- 
ing terrible  brow,  saw  the  portentous  frown  gather- 
ing like  the  clouds;  then  she  thought  her  blood 
would  have  curdled  in  her  veins  when  with  a  flam- 
ing look  and  a  deep  hollow  voice  she  was  asked: 

"Where  did  you  find  this  picture?" 

"The  Duchesse  de  Carigliano  returned  it  tome." 

"You  asked  her  for  it?" 

"I  did  not  know  she  had  it." 

The  sweetness  or  rather  the  bewitching  melody 
of  this  angel  voice  would  have  softened  a  savage, 
but  not  an  artist  who  was  suffering  the  tortures  of 
wounded  vanity. 

"It  is  just  like  her!"  thundered  the  artist,  "I'll 
have  my  revenge,"  he  said,  striding  up  and  down, 
"she  shall  die  of  shame;  I  will  paint  her !  Yes!  I 
will  exhibit  her  with  the  features  of  Messalina 
stealing  by  night  from  the  palace  of  Claudius." 

"Theodore!" — faltered  a  faint  voice. 

"I'll  kill  her!" 

"My  love!" 

"She  loves  this  little  cavalry  colonel  because  he 
rides  well — " 

"Theodore!" 

"Eh!  leave  me!"  said  the  artist  to  his  wife  in  a 
voice  that  was  almost  a  roar. 


THE  DUCHESS  AND  AUGUSTINE 


They  came  to  a  suinptnoits  gallery,  where  the 
duchess  led  tlie  artist's  ivife  to  the  portrait  Theodore 
had  painted  of  Mademoiselle  Guillaiime.  At  tins 
sight  Augustine  gave  a  cry. 

"  /  knew  it  xvas  no  longer  at  home','  she  said, 
"  but— here  !  " 


Lit  fJttCvr 


IT         Lit   fJuC' 


THE   CAT  AND   RACKET  89 

It  would  be  invidious  to  describe  this  scene,  in 
which  the  frenzy  of  rage  drove  the  artist  to  words 
and  acts  that  a  less  experienced  woman  than  Augus- 
tine would  have  attributed  to  insanity. 

The  next  day  at  eight  in  the  morning,  Madame 
Guillaume  found  her  daughter,  with  a  white  face, 
red  eyes  and  disordered  hair,  holding  a  tear-soaked 
handkerchief,  staring  at  the  scattered  fragments  of  a 
torn  canvas  and  the  remnants  of  a  big  gilt  frame 
that  lay  in  pieces  on  the  floor.  Augustine,  almost 
unconscious  from  grief,  pointed  to  the  wreck  with 
a  gesture  full  of  despair. 

"There's  a  loss!"  cried  the  old  regent  of  the  Cat 
and  Racket ;  "it  certainly  was  a  good  likeness;  but 
I  hear  there  is  a  man  on  the  boulevard  who  makes 
charming  portraits  for  fifty  ecus." 

"Oh!  mother!"— 

"Poor  little  one,  you  are  quite  right!"  answered 
Madame  Guillaume,  who  misinterpreted  the  mean- 
ing of  the  look  her  daughter  gave  her. — "Come,  my 
child,  one  is  never  loved  so  tenderly  as  by  one's 
mother.  My  darling!  lean  guess  all;  but  come 
and  tell  me  all  your  troubles,  I  will  comfort  you. 
Did  I  not  tell  you  that  man  was  mad.-*  Your  maid 
has  told  me  some  fme  tales — But  he  must  be  a  regu- 
lar monster!" 

Augustine  put  her  finger  to  her  pale  lips,  as  if 
imploring  her  mother  to  be  silent  for  a  moment. 
During  this  awful  night,  sorrow  had  taught  her  that 
patient  resignation  which,  in  mothers  and  women 
who  love,  surpasses  human  strength  in  its  results 


90        THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  CAT  AND  RACKET 

and,  it  may  be,  reveals  the  existence  of  certain 
chords  in  a  woman's  heart  that  God  has  denied  to 
men. 

An  inscription  cut  on  a  tombstone  in  the  cemetery 
Montmartre  tells  that  Madame  de  Sommervieux 
died  at  the  age  of  twenty-seven.  In  the  simple 
lines  of  this  epitaph,  a  friend  of  this  timid  creature 
sees  the  last  scene  of  a  drama.  Every  year,  on  the 
solemn  day  of  the  second  of  November,  he  never 
passes  this  early  grave  without  asking  himself 
whether  the  powerful  grasp  of  genius  does  not  re- 
quire a  stronger  woman  than  was  Augustine. 

"It  may  be,"  he  said  to  himself,  "that  lowly, 
modest  flowers  born  in  the  valleys  die  when  they 
are  transplanted  too  close  to  the  skies,  in  regions 
where  tempests  are  formed  and  the  sun  scorches. " 

Maffliers,  October,  1829. 


THE  DANCE  AT  SCEAUX 


(91) 


TO  HENRI  DE  BALZAC, 

His  brother 

HONORE. 


(93) 


THE  DANCE  AT  SCEAUX 

The  Comte  de  Fontaine,  head  of  one  of  the  oldest 
families  of  Poitou,  had  intelligently  and  bravely 
served  the  cause  of  the  Bourbons  during  the  war 
waged  against  the  Republic  by  the  Vendeans.  After 
escaping  all  the  dangers  which  threatened  the  Roy- 
alist leaders  during  this  stormy  period  of  contem- 
porary history,  he  would  say  gaily: 

"I  am  one  of  those  who  were  killed  on  the  steps 
of  the  throne !" 

This  joke  bore  some  truth  from  a  man  who  had 
been  left  for  dead  on  the  bloody  day  of  the  Quatre- 
Chemins.  Although  ruined  by  confiscations,  this 
loyal  Vendean  constantly  refused  the  lucrative  posts 
offered  him  by  the  Emperor  Napoleon.  Faithful  to 
his  aristocratic  creed,  he  had  blindly  followed  its 
maxims  when  he  deemed  it  convenient  to  choose  a 
wife.  In  spite  of  the  allurements  of  a  rich  revolu- 
tionary parvenu  who  set  a  high  price  on  this  alliance, 
he  married  a  Mademoiselle  de  Kergarouet,  penniless, 
but  of  one  of  the  oldest  families  in  Brittany. 

The  Restoration  found  Monsieur  de  Fontaine  en- 
cumbered with  a  large  family.  Although  it  never 
entered  the  generous  gentleman's  head  to  solicit 
favors,  nevertheless,  yielding  to  his  wife's  wishes, 
he  left  his  estate,  whose  small  revenue  barely  sufficed 

(95) 


96  THE   DANCE  AT  SCEAUX 

for  the  needs  of  his  children,  and  came  to  Paris. 
Saddened  by  the  avidity  with  which  his  former 
comrades  scrambled  for  constitutional  posts  and 
titles,  he  was  on  the  point  of  returning  to  his  prop- 
erty, when  he  received  an  official  letter,  in  which 
a  rather  well-known  Excellency  informed  him  of  his 
appointment  to  the  rank  of  Field-Marshal,  in  pur- 
suance of  the  decree  which  allowed  officers  of  the 
Catholic  forces  to  count  the  first  twenty  years  of  the 
reign  of  Louis  XVIII.  as  years  of  service.  Several 
days  after,  the  Vendean  still  further  received,  with- 
out any  application,  and  officially,  the  Cross  of  the 
Legion  of  Honor  and  that  of  Saint-Louis.  Shaken 
in  his  resolution  by  these  successive  favors,  which 
he  believed  due  to  the  monarch's  recollection  of  him, 
he  was  no  longer  content  with  leading  his  family, 
as  he  had  hitherto  religiously  done,  every  Sunday, 
to  cry,  "Vive  le  roi!" — in  the  Hall  of  the  Marshals, 
at  the  Tuileries,  when  the  princes  were  going  to 
chapel, — he  begged  the  favor  of  a  special  interview. 
This  audience,  very  promptly  granted,  was  in  no 
sense  private.  The  royal  salon  was  full  of  old 
servants  whose  powdered  heads,  looked  at  from  a 
certain  height,  were  like  a  carpet  of  snow.  There, 
the  nobleman  recognized  some  old  companions  who 
received  him  with  somewhat  cold  looks;  but  the 
princes  seemed  to  him  adorable,  an  enthusiastic  ex- 
pression which  escaped  him  when  the  most  gracious 
of  his  masters,  to  whom  the  count  believed  himself 
only  known  by  name,  came  and  squeezed  his  hand 
and  declared  him  to  be  the  truest  of  the  Vendeans. 


THE   DANCE   AT   SCEAUX  97 

In  spite  of  this  ovation,  not  one  of  these  august  per- 
sonages had  any  idea  of  asking  him  for  an  account 
of  his  losses  or  of  the  money  so  generously  poured 
into  the  coffers  of  the  Catholic  army.  He  per- 
ceived, a  little  too  late,  that  he  had  fought  at  his 
own  expense. 

Toward  the  end  of  the  evening,  he  thought  he 
might  risk  a  witty  allusion  to  the  state  of  his  affairs, 
similar  to  those  of  many  other  gentlemen.  His 
Majesty  laughed  heartily  enough, — every  word 
bearing  the  stamp  of  wit  had  the  advantage  of 
pleasing  him — but  he  replied,  nevertheless,  with 
one  of  those  royal  jests  whose  gentleness  is  more 
formidable  than  the  anger  of  a  reprimand.  One  of 
the  king's  most  intimate  confidants  lost  no  time  in 
approaching  the  scheming  Vendean,  to  whom  he  in- 
timated, in  a  subtle,  polished  phrase,  that  the  time 
for  settling  with  the  rulers  had  not  yet  arrived; 
there  were  on  hand  several  accounts  much  more  in 
arrears  than  his  own,  and  that  were  no  doubt  likely 
to  form  the  history  of  the  Revolution. 

The  count  discreetly  retired  from  the  venerable 
group  forming  a  respectful  semicircle  before  the 
august  family;  then,  after  having,  not  without  diffi- 
culty, disengaged  his  sword  from  amongst  the  slen- 
der legs  in  which  it  had  become  entangled,  he 
walked  across  the  court  of  the  Tuileries  to  the  cab 
he  had  left  on  the  quay.  With  the  restive  spirit 
that  distinguished  the  noblemen  of  the  old  stamp 
whose  memory  of  the  League  and  the  Barricades 
was  not  yet  dimmed,  he  complained  in  the  cab, 
7 


98  THE   DANCE  AT  SCEALIX 

aloud  and   in  a  compromising  manner,  about   the 
change  that  had  taken  place  at  Court. 

"Formerly,"  he  said  to  himself,  "everyone talked 
freely  to  the  king  of  his  little  affairs,  the  seigneurs 
could  ask  favors  and  money  of  him  when  they  pleased, 
and  to-day  is  it  to  be  an  offence  to  seek  the  reim- 
bursement of  sums  raised  for  his  service?  'Sdeathl 
the  Cross  of  Saint-Louis  and  the  rank  of  Field-Mar- 
shal are  not  worth  the  three  hundred  thousand 
pounds  that  I  spent  in  fine  style  in  the  royal  cause. 
I  shall  speak  to  the  king  again,  to  his  face,  and  in 
his  cabinet." 

This  occurrence  chilled  Monsieur  de  Fontaine's 
zeal  all  the  more  as  his  requests  for  an  audience 
always  remained  unanswered.  Moreover,  he  saw 
the  intruders  of  the  Empire  succeeding  to  some  of 
the  offices  which,  under  the  ancient  monarchy,  had 
been  reserved  for  the  higher  families. 

"All  is  lost,"  he  said  to  himself  one  morning, 
"decidedly,  the  king  has  never  been  anything  but 
a  revolutionary.  But  for  monsieur,  who  never  de- 
grades himself  and  who  consoles  his  faithful  ser- 
vants, I  do  not  know  into  whose  hands  the  crown 
of  France  might  not  fall  if  this  regime  continues. 
Their  cursed  constitutional  system  is  the  very  worst 
of  all  governments,  and  can  never  answer  in  France. 
Louis  XVIII.  and  Monsieur  Beugnot  spoiled  every- 
thing for  us  at  Saint-Ouen. " 

In  despair  the  count  was  preparing  to  return  to 
his  estate,  nobly  abandoning  his  clairhs  to  any 
indemnity.      At   this   moment,  the   events   of  the 


THE  DANCE  AT  SCEAUX  99 

twentieth  of  March  foretold  a  fresh  storm  that 
threatened  to  ingulf  the  lawful  king  and  his  sup- 
porters. Like  those  generous  people  who  never 
dismiss  a  servant  on  a  rainy  day,  Monsieur  de 
Fontaine  borrowed  from  his  estate  to  follow  the 
overthrown  monarchy,  not  knowing  whether  this 
participation  in  emigration  would  be  any  more  pro- 
pitious to  him  than  his  past  devotion  had  been; 
but,  after  having  observed  that  the  companions  in 
exile  were  in  greater  favor  than  the  heroes  who 
had  formerly  protested,  sword  in  hand,  against  the 
establishment  of  the  Republic,  he  may  perhaps 
have  hoped  to  profit  more  by  this  journey  abroad 
than  by  an  active  and  perilous  service  at  home. 
His  courtier-like  calculations  were  not  any  of  those 
empty  speculations  that  promise  such  superb  results 
on  paper,  and  ruin  in  their  fulfillment.  He  was, 
therefore,  according  to  the  saying  of  one  of  our 
wittiest  and  cleverest  diplomatists,  one  of  the  five 
hundred  faithful  servants  who  shared  the  court's 
exile  at  Ghent,  and  one  of  the  fifty  thousand  who 
returned.  During  this  short  absence  of  royalty, 
Monsieur  de  Fontaine  had  the  good  fortune  to  be 
employed  by  Louis  XVIll.,  and  hit  upon  more  than 
one  occasion  of  giving  the  king  proofs  of  great 
political  honesty  and  sincere  attachment. 

One  evening  when  the  monarch  had  nothing  bet- 
ter to  do,  he  recalled  the  bon  mot  said  by  Monsieur 
de  Fontaine  at  the  Tuileries.  The  old  Vendean  did 
not  let  such  an  opportunity  escape,  and  related  his 
story  ingeniously  enough  so  that    the   king,   who 


100  THE  DANCE  AT  SCEAUX 

never  forgot  anything,  might  remember  it  in  due 
time.  The  august  scholar  remarked  the  shrewd  turn 
given  to  some  reports,  the  drawing  up  of  which  had 
been  intrusted  to  the  discreet  nobleman.  This  little 
accomplishment  inscribed  Monsieur  de  Fontaine  in 
the  king's  memory,  as  being  amongst  the  most  loyal 
servants  of  his  crown.  Upon  the  second  return,  the 
count  was  one  of  tliose  special  envoys  who  traveled 
through  the  districts,  with  authority  to  absolutely 
judge  the  abettors  of  the  rebellion;  but  he  used  his 
terrible  power  moderately.  As  soon  as  this  tempo- 
rary magistracy  ceased,  the  grand-marshal  took  one 
of  the  seats  in  the  Council  of  State,  became  deputy, 
spoke  little,  listened  much,  and  considerably 
changed  his  opinions.  Several  circumstances,  un- 
known to  biographers,  advanced  him  sufficiently  in 
the  prince's  intimacy,  for  the  malicious  monarch  to 
thus  address  him  one  day  as  he  came  in : 

"Friend  Fontaine,  I  would  not  presume  to  ap- 
point you  director-general  or  minister !  Neither  you 
nor  I,  if  we  were  officials,  would  keep  our  places,  on 
account  of  our  opinions.  The  representative  gov- 
ernment is  so  far  good  in  that  it  saves  us  the  trouble 
we  formerly  had  in  ourselves  dismissing  our  Secre- 
taries of  State.  Our  council  is  a  veritable  inn,  to 
which  public  opinion  often  sends  us  queer  travelers; 
but  after  all  we  shall  always  know  where  to  find  a 
place  for  our  faithful  servants." 

This  mocking  overture  was  followed  by  an  order 
giving  Monsieur  de  Fontaine  an  administration 
in   the   domain   extraordinary  of  the   Crown.      In 


THE   DANCE   AT  SCEAUX  lOI 

consequence  of  the  intelligent  attention  with  which 
he  would  listen  to  the  sarcasms  of  his  royal  friend, 
his  name  was  on  His  Majesty's  lips  every  time  that 
it  became  necessary  to  create  a  commission  whose 
members  were  to  be  lucratively  paid.  He  had  the 
good  sense  to  say  nothing  of  the  favor  with  which 
the  monarch  honored  him  and  knew  how  to  preserve 
it  by  a  piquant  manner  of  narrating,  in  one  of  those 
familiar  chats  in  which  Louis  XVIII.  delighted  as 
much  as  in  agreeably  written  notes,  political  anec- 
dotes, or,  if  one  may  use  such  an  expression,  the 
diplomatic  or  parliamentary  cancans  which  abounded 
at  that  time.  It  is  well  known  that  the  details  of  his 
gowvernementabilite — a  word  adopted  by  the  august 
jester — amused  him  infinitely.  Thanks  to  the 
good  sense,  intelligence  and  shrewdness  of  Monsieur 
le  Comte  de  Fontaine,  every  member  of  his  numer- 
ous family,  however  young  he  might  be,  finished — 
as  he  humorously  remarked  to  his  master — by 
alighting  like  a  silk  worm  on  the  leaves  of  the 
budget.  Thus,  through  the  kindness  of  the  king,  his 
eldest  son  attained  an  eminent  position  in  the  per- 
manent magistracy.  The  second,  a  plain  captain 
before  the  Restoration,  obtained  an  order  immedi- 
ately after  his  return  from  Ghent;  then,  favored  by 
the  agitations  of  1815,  during  which  regulations 
were  disregarded,  he  passed  into  the  Royal  Guard, 
repassed  into  the  body  guard,  returned  to  the  line, 
and,  after  the  affair  of  the  Trocadero  found  himself 
a  lieutenant-general  with  a  command  in  the  guard. 
The  youngest,  appointed  sub-prefect,  soon  became 


I02  THE   DANCE  AT   SCEAUX 

maitre  des  requetes  and  director  of  a  municipal  ad- 
ministration of  the  city  of  Paris,  where  he  found 
himself  secure  from  legislative  storms.  These  quiet 
favors,  secret  as  the  preference  bestowed  upon  the 
count,  showered  down  unremarked. 

Although  the  father  and  the  three  sons  might  each 
have  had  sinecures  enough  to  enjoy  an  income  from 
the  budget  almost  equal  to  that  of  a  director-general, 
their  political  success  excited  nobody's  envy.  In 
these  early  days  of  the  first  establishment  of  the 
constitutional  system,  very  few  people  had  any  ac- 
curate ideas  concerning  the  peaceful  regions  of  the 
budget,  where  shrewd  favorites  knew  how  to  find 
an  equivalent  for  their  ruined  abbeys.  Monsieur 
le  Comte  de  Fontaine,  who  but  lately  boasted  that 
he  had  not  read  the  Charter  and  showed  so  much 
bitterness  against  the  avidity  of  the  courtiers,  was 
not  long  in  proving  to  his  august  master  that  he  un- 
derstood the  character  and  resources  of  the  represen- 
tative as  well  as  he  did.  And  yet,  in  spite  of  the 
security  of  the  careers  opened  to  his  three  sons,  in 
spite  of  the  pecuniary  advantages  resulting  from 
the  holding  of  the  four  positions.  Monsieur  de  Fon- 
taine was  the  head  of  too  numerous  a  family  to  be 
able  to  re-establish  his  fortunes  either  promptly  or 
easily.  His  three  sons  were  rich  in  prospects,  favor 
and  talent;  but  he  had  three  daughters  and  feared  to 
weary  the  king's  kindness.  He  contrived  to  speak 
of  only  one  of  these  virgins  who  were  in  such  haste 
to  light  their  torches.  The  king  had  too  much  good 
taste  to  leave  his  work  incomplete.     The  marriage 


THE  DANCE  AT  SCEAUX  IO3 

of  the  eldest  with  a  collector-general,  Planat  de 
Baudry,  was  decided  by  one  of  those  royal  phrases 
that  cost  nothing  and  are  worth  millions. 

One  evening  when  the  monarch  was  out  of  humor, 
he  smiled  at  learning  the  existence  of  another 
demoiselle  de  Fontaine,  whom  he  married  to  a  young 
magistrate,  of  bourgeois  extraction,  it  is  true,  but 
rich,  full  of  talent,  and  whom  he  created  a  baron. 
When,  the  following  year,  the  Vendean  mentioned 
Mademoiselle  Emilie  de  Fontaine,  the  king  replied, 
in  his  little  sour  voice: 

"Amicus  Plato,  sed  magis  arnica  Natio." 

Then,  several  days  after,  he  regaled  his  friend 
Fontaine  with  a  somewhat  silly  quatrain  that  he 
called  an  epigram  and  in  which  he  rallied  him  on 
his  three  daughters  so  cleverly  produced  in  the  form 
of  a  trinity.  If  history  is  to  be  believed,  the  mon- 
arch had  sought  his  bonmot  in  the  unity  of  the  three 
divine  beings. 

"If  only  the  King  would  deign  to  change  his  epi- 
gram into  an  epithalamium .?"  said  the  count,  try- 
ing to  turn  this  fancy  to  his  own  advantage. 

"If  I  see  the  rhyme,  I  do  not  see  the  reason," 
answered  the  King  stiffly,  in  no  way  relishing  this 
joke  upon  his  poetry,  however  mild  it  might  be. 

From  that  day,  his  dealings  with  Monsieur  de 
Fontaine  were  less  gracious.  Kings  are  more  given 
to  perversity  than  one  would  think.  Like  almost 
all  youngest  children,  Emilie  de  Fontaine  was  a 
Benjamin,  spoiled  by  everyone.  The  monarch's 
coolness  caused  the  count  all  the  more  pain  in  that 


104  THE  DANCE  AT  SCEAUX 

there  never  was  a  more  difficult  marriage  to  arrange 
than  that  of  this  darling  daughter.  To  understand 
all  these  obstacles,  it  is  necessary  to  penetrate 
within  the  precincts  of  the  beautiful  house  in  which 
the  administrator  lived  at  the  expense  of  the  Civil 
List  Emilie  had  spent  her  childhood  on  the  Fon- 
taine estate  enjoying  the  abundance  that  suffices  for 
the  early  pleasures  of  youth ;  her  least  wishes  were 
law  to  her  sisters,  brothers,  her  mother  and  even 
her  father.     All  her  relations  doted  upon  her. 

Arriving  at  a  sensible  age  just  at  the  time  when 
her  family  was  loaded  with  fortune's  favors,  the  en- 
chantment of  her  life  continued.  The  luxuries  of 
Paris  seemed  to  her  quite  as  natural  as  the  profu- 
sion of  flowers  and  fruit  and  the  rural  wealth  that 
constituted  the  happiness  of  her  early  years.  Just 
as  she  had  met  with  no  sort  of  contradiction  when 
in  childhood  she  wished  to  satisfy  her  glad  desires, 
so  she  found  herself  obeyed  when  at  fourteen  years 
of  age  she  was  launched  into  the  vortex  of  society. 
Thus  gradually  accustomed  to  the  gratifications  of 
wealth,  refinement  of  dress,  elegance  of  gilded 
salons  and  carriages,  became  as  necessary  to  her  as 
the  genuine  or  false  compliments  of  flattery,  as  the 
entertainments  and  vanities  of  the  Court.  Like 
most  spoiled  children,  she  tyrannized  over  those 
who  loved  her,  and  reserved  her  coquetries  for  those 
who  were  indifferent  to  her.  Her  faults  only  grew  in 
proportion  as  she  did,  and  her  parents  were  soon 
to  reap  the  bitter  fruits  of  this  fatal  training.  At 
nineteen  Emilie  de  Fontaine  had  not  yet  made  her 


THE  DANCE  AT  SCEAUX  105 

choice  from  amongst  the  numerous  young  men  that 
Monsieur  de  Fontaine's  policy  assembled  at  their 
entertainments.  Although  still  very  young,  she 
enjoyed  in  society  all  the  independence  that  a 
woman  can  have.  Like  kings,  she  had  no  friends, 
and  found  herself  everywhere  an  object  of  attention 
of  which  a  better  disposition  than  her  own  would 
perhaps  not  have  been  able  to  stand  the  test.  No 
man,  not  even  an  old  one,  had  the  strength  to  con- 
tradict the  opinions  of  a  young  girl  whose  mere 
glance  could  awaken  love  in  a  cold  heart  Brought 
up  with  more  care  than  her  sisters,  she  painted 
fairly  well,  spoke  Italian  and  English,  and  played 
the  piano  in  the  most  distracting  manner;  lastly, 
her  voice,  improved  by  the  best  masters,  had  a  tone 
that  gave  irresistible  charm  to  her  singing.  Intel- 
lectual and  fed  upon  every  kind  of  literature,  she 
might  have  made  one  believe,  as  Mascarille  says, 
that  people  of  rank  come  into  the  world  fully  edu- 
cated. She  argued  fluently  about  Italian  or  Flemish 
painting,  on  the  Middle  Ages  or  the  Renaissance; 
judged  old  or  new  books  indiscriminately,  and 
brought  out  the  faults  in  a  work  with  cruel  charm 
of  wit.  Her  simplest  sentence  was  received  by  the 
adoring  crowd  as  the  Turks  would  difetfa  of  the  Sul- 
tan. In  this  way  she  dazzled  artificial  people;  as 
to  more  profound  persons,  her  natural  tact  helped 
her  to  recognize  them;  and  for  them  she  would  dis- 
play so  much  coquetry  that,  by  the  help  of  her 
charms,  she  could  escape  their  examination.  This 
fascinating  polish  covered  an  indifferent  heart,  the 


I06  THE  DANCE  AT  SCEAUX 

opinion,  common  to  many  young  girls,  that  nobody 
lived  in  a  sufficiently  exalted  sphere  to  understand 
her  perfection  of  mind,  and  a  pride  that  relied  as 
much  upon  her  birth  as  her  beauty.  In  the  absence 
of  any  strong  feeling  which  sooner  or  later  lays 
waste  a  woman's  heart,  she  spent  her  youthful  ardor 
in  an  immoderate  love  of  distinction,  and  showed 
the  deepest  contempt  for  commoners.  Very  imper- 
tinent to  the  new  nobility,  she  strove  her  utmost  so 
that  her  parents  should  rank  on  an  equal  footing 
with  the  most  illustrious  families  of  the  Faubourg 
Saint-Germain. 

These  sentiments  had  not  escaped  Monsieur  de 
Fontaine's  observing  eye,  who  more  than  once,  at 
the  time  of  the  marriage  of  his  two  eldest  daughters, 
had  had  to  lament  Emilie's  sarcasms  and  witticisms. 
Logical  persons  would  have  been  astonished  to  have 
seen  the  old  Vendean  giving  his  eldest  daughter  to 
a  collector-general  who,  it  is  true,  possessed  several 
old  manorial  estates,  but  whose  name  was  not  pre- 
ceded by  that  particle  to  which  the  throne  owed  so 
many  defenders,  and  the  second  to  a  magistrate  too 
recently  created  baron  to  overlook  the  fact  that  the 
father  had  sold  fagots.  This  remarkable  change  in 
the  noble's  ideas  just  when  he  was  attaining  his 
sixtieth  year,  a  period  at  which  men  rarely  aban- 
don their  beliefs,  was  not  only  due  to  the  deplor- 
able residence  in  modern  Babylon,  where  all 
provincial  people  end  by  losing  their  crudeness; 
the  Comte  de  Fontaine's  new  political  conscience 
was  still  more  the  result  of  the  king's  advice  and 


THE   DANCE  AT  SCEAUX  IO7 

friendship.  This  philosopher  prince  had  delighted 
in  converting  the  Vendean  to  the  ideas  exacted  by 
the  progress  of  the  nineteenth  century  and  the  ren- 
ovation of  the  monarchy.  Louis  XVill.  wanted  to 
blend  parties  as  Napoleon  had  blended  things  and 
men.  The  legitimate  king,  perhaps  as  clever  as 
his  rival,  proceeded  the  reverse  way.  The  last 
head  of  the  House  of  Bourbon  was  as  eager  to  please 
the  commons  and  the  people  of  the  Empire,  by  re- 
pressing the  clergy,  as  the  first  of  the  Napoleons 
had  been  anxious  to  win  over  the  great  noblemen 
and  to  endow  the  Church.  Confident  of  the  royal 
opinion,  the  Councillor  of  State  had  insensibly  be- 
come one  of  the  most  influential  and  wisest  heads 
of  the  moderate  party  that  earnestly  desired,  in  the 
name  of  national  interest,  the  merging  of  opinions. 
He  preached  the  expensive  principles  of  constitu- 
tional government  and  promoted  with  all  his  power 
the  game  of  political  seesaw  that  enabled  his  mas- 
ter to  govern  France  in  the  midst  of  agitations. 
Perhaps  Monsieur  de  Fontaine  flattered  himself  he 
could  attain  the  peerage  by  one  of  those  legislative 
squalls  whose  strange  effects  at  that  time  surprised 
the  oldest  politicians.  One  of  his  most  fixed  prin- 
ciples consisted  in  no  longer  recognizing  any  other 
nobility  in  France  than  the  peerage,  whose  families 
were  the  only  ones  who  had  privileges. 

"A  nobility  without  privileges,"  he  said,  "is  a 
handle  without  a  knife." 

As  far  removed  from  La  Fayette's  party  as  from 
that  of  De  la  Bourdonnaye,  he  zealously  undertook 


I08  THE  DANCE  AT  SCEAUX 

a  general  reconciliation  from  which  a  new  era  and 
a  brilliant  destiny  for  France  was  to  arise.  He 
tried  to  convince  the  families  who  frequented  fash- 
ionable circles  and  those  he  visited,  of  the  few  fav- 
orable chances  afforded  in  future  by  a  military 
career  or  the  administration.  He  persuaded  mothers 
to  launch  their  children  into  independent  and  indus- 
trial professions,  by  giving  them  to  understand  that 
military  offices  and  the  higher  functions  of  the  gov- 
ernment would  finally  belong  quite  constitutionally 
to  the  younger  sons  of  noble  families  in  the  peerage. 
According  to  him,  the  nation  had  acquired  so  large 
a  share  in  the  administration  by  its  elective  assem- 
bly, by  offices  in  the  magistracy  and  those  in 
finance,  which,  said  he,  would  always  be  as  formerly 
the  appanage  of  notabilities  of  the  commons.  The 
new  ideas  of  the  head  of  the  De  Fontaine  family 
and  the  wise  alliances  resulting  from  them  for  his 
two  elder  girls,  had  met  with  vigorous  resistance 
in  the  heart  of  his  household.  The  Comtesse  de 
Fontaine  remained  faithful  to  the  old  beliefs,  which 
could  not  be  renounced  by  a  woman  who  belonged 
to  the  Rohans  on  her  mother's  side.  Although  she 
was  for  a  while  opposed  to  the  happiness  and  good 
fortune  in  store  for  her  two  elder  daughters,  she 
submitted  to  those  secret  considerations  that  hus- 
band and  wife  confide  to  each  other,  when  their 
heads  rest  upon  the  same  pillow.  Monsieur  de 
Fontaine  coldly  demonstrated  to  his  wife,  by  close 
calculations,  that  living  in  Paris,  the  necessity  of 
keeping  up  appearances  there,  the  splendor  of  the 


THE   DANCE  AT  SCEAUX  IO9 

house  which  compensated  them  for  the  privations 
so  bravely  shared  in  the  depths  of  La  Vendee,  the 
outlay  spent  upon  their  sons,  absorbed  the  greater 
part  of  their  budgetary  revenue.  So  they  must 
seize,  as  a  heaven-sent  favor,  the  chance  offered 
them  of  providing  so  richly  for  their  daughters. 
Would  they  not  one  day  enjoy  sixty,  eighty,  a 
hundred  thousand  francs  income?  Such  advan- 
tageous marriages  were  not  to  be  met  with  every 
day  for  dowerless  girls.  In  short,  it  was  time 
to  think  of  economizing  to  improve  the  estate  of  De 
Fontaine  and  to  re-establish  the  old  territorial  for- 
tune of  the  family.  The  comtesse  yielded  to  such 
persuasive  arguments,  as  all  mothers  would  have 
done  in  her  place,  although  perhaps  with  a  better 
grace;  but  she  declared  that  her  daughter  Emilie,  at 
least,  should  marry  in  such  a  way  as  to  satisfy  the 
pride  which  she  had  unfortunately  contributed  to 
develop  in  this  young  soul. 

Thus  the  events  that  ought  to  have  bestowed 
happiness  upon  this  family  introduced  a  slight 
leaven  of  discord.  The  collector-general  and  the 
young  magistrate  were  objects  of  a  chill  ceremony 
that  the  comtesse  and  her  daughter  Emilie  were 
well-skilled  in.  Their  etiquette  found  ample 
ground  for  exercising  their  domestic  tyrannies;  the 
lieutenant-general  married  Mademoiselle  Mongenod, 
daughter  of  a  rich  banker ;  the  president  very  sensi- 
bly married  a  young  lady  whose  father,  million- 
aire two  or  three  times  over,  had  traded  in  salt; 
finally,  the  third  brother  proved  his  adherence  to  his 


no  THE   DANCE  AT  SCEAUX 

plebeian  doctrines  by  taking  to  wife  Mademoiselle 
Grosset^te,  only  daughter  of  the  collector-general 
at  Bourges.  The  three  sisters-in-law  and  the  two 
brothers-in-law  found  so  many  charms  and  personal 
advantages  in  remaining  in  the  lofty  sphere  of 
political  magnates  and  in  the  circles  of  the  Faubourg 
Saint-Germain,  that  they  all  united  in  forming  a 
small  court  around  the  haughty  Emilie  This  treaty 
between  interest  and  pride  was,  nevertheless,  not  so 
well  cemented  but  that  the  young  sovereign  often 
excited  revolutions  in  her  little  State.  Scenes,  that 
good  breeding  could  not  retract,  maintained  be- 
tween all  the  members  of  this  influential  family  a 
scoffmg  disposition,  which  without  perceptibly 
altering  the  friendship  shown  in  public,  in  private 
sometimes  degenerated  into  not  very  charitable 
sentiments.  Thus  the  wife  of  the  lieutenant-gen- 
eral, now  a  baroness,  believed  herself  quite  as  noble 
as  a  Kergarouet  and  presumed  that  a  hundred  thou- 
sand francs  solid  income  gave  her  the  right  to  be  as 
impertinent  as  her  sister-in-law  Emilie,  to  whom 
she  often  ironically  wished  a  happy  marriage  in 
announcing  to  her  that  the  daughter  of  such  and 
such  a  peer  had  just  married  some  plain  monsieur 
so-and-so.  The  wife  of  the  Vicomte  de  Fontaine 
amused  herself  by  surpassing  Emilie  in  the  good 
taste  and  richness  for  which  her  dress,  her  furni- 
ture and  carriages  were  remarkable.  The  mocking 
air  with  which  the  sisters  and  brothers-in-law  some- 
times received  the  pretensions  made  by  Mademoi- 
selle  de  Fontaine  roused   in    her  a  wrath   hardly 


THE  DANCE  AT  SCEAUX  III 

appeased  by  a  shower  of  epigrams.  When  the  head 
of  the  family  met  with  any  coolness  in  the  tacit  and 
precarious  friendship  of  the  monarch,  he  trembled 
all  the  more  that,  in  consequence  of  the  satirical 
defiance  of  her  sisters,  his  darling  daughter  had 
never  had  more  ambitious  views. 

In  the  midst  of  these  circumstances,  and  when  the 
little  domestic  fight  was  becoming  very  serious,  the 
monarch,  in  whose  favor  Monsieur  de  Fontaine  be- 
lieved himself  re-established,  was  attacked  by  the 
illness  of  which  he  was  to  die.  The  great  politi- 
cian who  had  so  well  known  how  to  guide  his  ves- 
sel amidst  the  storms  was  not  long  in  succumbing. 
Uncertain  of  the  favor  to  come,  the  Count  de  Fon- 
taine then  made  the  greatest  efforts  to  gather  the 
most  select  of  the  marriageable  young  men  round 
his  youngest  daughter.  Those  who  have  attempted 
to  solve  the  difficult  problem  offered  by  the  marriage 
of  a  proud  and  capricious  daughter  will  perhaps  un- 
derstand the  trouble  taken  by  the  poor  Vendean. 
Had  it  been  completed  to  the  satisfaction  of  his 
beloved  child,  this  last  enterprise  would  have  nobly 
crowned  the  career  that  the  comte  had  pursued  for 
ten  years  in  Paris. 

From  the  way  in  which  his  family  usurped  the 
salaries  of  all  departments,  they  might  have  been 
compared  to  the  House  of  Austria,  which,  by  its 
coalition,  threatens  to  invade  all  Europe.  There- 
fore the  old  Vendean  was  not  to  be  discouraged  in 
presenting  suitors,  so  much  had  he  his  daughter's 
happiness  at   heart;    but   nothing   could    be   more 


112  THE  DANCE  AT  SCEAUX 

ludicrous  than  the  way  in  which  the  impertinent 
creature  passed  sentence  upon  and  judged  the  merits 
of  her  adorers.  One  would  have  said  that  like  one 
of  the  princesses  in  the  Thousand  and  One  Nights, 
Emilie  was  rich  enough  and  beautiful  enough  to 
have  the  right  to  choose  amongst  all  the  princes  in 
the  world;  her  objections  were  each  more  facetious 
than  the  other;  one  was  too  heavy  in  the  legs  or 
was  knock-kneed,  another  was  short-sighted,  this 
one  was  called  Durand,  that  one  limped,  nearly  all 
seemed  to  her  too  fat.  Livelier,  more  charming  and 
merrier  than  ever  after  having  rejected  two  or 
three  suitors,  she  threw  herself  into  winter  festiv- 
ities and  ran  to  balls  where  her  piercing  eyes 
would  examine  the  celebrities  of  the  day,  and  she 
would  amuse  herself  by  inviting  the  proposals  that 
she  always  declined. 

Nature  had  endowed  her  richly  with  all  the  ad- 
vantages indispensable  to  this  role  of  Celimene. 
Tall  and  slender,  Emilie  de  Fontaine  possessed  a 
bearing  that  was  imposing  or  playful,  as  she  chose. 
Her  rather  long  neck  allowed  her  to  take  charming 
attitudes  of  disdain  and  impertinence.  She  pro- 
vided herself  with  an  abundant  repertory  of  those 
nods  and  feminine  gestures  that  interpret  hints  and 
smiles  so  cruelly  or  so  favorably.  Beautiful  black 
hair,  thick  and  strongly  arched  eyebrows,  lent  her 
face  an  expression  of  pride  that  coquetry,  as  much 
as  her  mirror,  had  taught  her  to  render  terrible  or 
to  soften  by  the  fixity  or  the  gentleness  of  her  look, 
by  the  immobility  or  the  light  inflections  of  her  lips, 


THE   DANCE  AT  SCEAUX  II3 

by  the  coldness  or  graciousness  of  her  smile.  When 
Emilie  wanted  to  secure  a  heart,  her  pure  voice  was 
not  wanting  in  sweetness,  but  she  could  at  the  same 
time  impart  a  sort  of  curt  clearness  to  it  when  she 
undertook  to  paralyze  the  indiscreet  tongue  of  a 
cavalier.  Her  white  face  and  snowy  forehead  were 
like  the  limpid  surface  of  a  lake  that  alternately 
ruffles  at  the  touch  of  a  breeze  or  resumes  its  joyful 
serenity  when  the  air  is  quiet.  More  than  one 
young  man,  a  victim  of  her  disdain,  accused  her  of 
playing  a  part;  but  she  would  vindicate  herself  by 
inspiring  the  slanderers  with  a  desire  to  please  her 
and  by  subjecting  them  to  the  scorn  of  her  coquetry. 
Amidst  all  the  fashionable  young  girls,  none  knew 
better  than  she  how  to  assume  an  air  of  haughtiness 
in  receiving  the  salutation  of  a  man  of  talent,  or 
how  to  use  that  insulting  politeness  which  makes 
inferiors  of  our  equals,  or  to  pour  out  her  imperti- 
nence on  all  who  attempted  to  place  themselves  on 
a  level  with  her.  She  seemed,  wherever  she  went, 
to  receive  homage  rather  than  compliments,  and 
even  for  a  princess,  her  appearance  and  manners 
would  have  converted  the  chair  in  which  she  might 
be  seated,  into  an  imperial  throne. 

Monsieur  de  Fontaine  discovered  too  late  how  the 
bringing-up  of  his  best-loved  daughter  had  been 
warped  by  the  tenderness  of  the  whole  family. 
The  admiration  that  the  world  first  shows  to  a 
young  person,  but  which  it  does  not  take  long  in 
avenging,  had  still  further  elated  Emilie's  pride, 
and  increased  her  self-confidence.  A  universal 
s 


114  THE   DANCE  AT  SCEAUX 

compliance  had  developed  in  her  the  egoism  natural 
to  spoiled  children,  who,  like  royalty,  make  fun  of 
all  who  approach  them.  For  the  present,  the  grace 
of  youth  and  the  charm  of  talent  hid  from  all  eyes 
these  faults,  all  the  more  odious  in  a  woman  in  that 
she  can  only  please  by  devotion  and  self-renuncia- 
tion; but  nothing  escapes  the  eye  of  a  good  father; 
Monsieur  de  Fontaine  often  tried  to  explain  to  his 
daughter  the  principal  pages  of  the  enigmatical 
book  of  life.  Vain  attempt!  he  too  often  had  to 
bemoan  the  capricious  intractableness  and  the  iron- 
ical wisdom  of  his  daughter  to  persevere  with  so 
difficult  a  task  as  that  of  correcting  so  mischievous 
a  disposition.  He  contented  himself  with  occasion- 
ally giving  advice  full  of  gentleness  and  kindness; 
but  he  suffered  the  pain  of  seeing  his  tenderest 
words  glancing  over  his  daughter's  heart  as  if  it 
had  been  of  marble.  A  father's  eyes  open  so  late, 
that  it  required  more  than  one  proof  for  the  old 
Vendean  to  perceive  the  condescending  air  with 
which  his  daughter  vouchsafed  him  scanty  caresses. 
She  was  like  those  children,  who  seem  to  say  to 
their  mother:  "Make  haste  and  kiss  me  so  that  I 
may  go  and  play."  Upon  the  whole,  Emilie 
deigned  to  have  some  tenderness  for  her  parents. 
But  often,  from  some  sudden  caprice  that  seems 
inexplicable  in  young  girls,  she  would  isolate  her- 
self and  hardly  appear ;  she  would  complain  that 
she  had  to  share  the  love  of  her  father  and  mother 
with  too  many  people,  she  became  jealous  of  every- 
body, even  of  her  brothers  and  sisters.     Then,  after 


THE  DANCE  AT  SCEAUX  115 

having  taken  great  pains  to  produce  a  desert  all 
round  her,  this  strange  girl  would  blame  all  nature 
for  her  imaginary  solitude  and  her  voluntary  suffer- 
ings. Armed  with  her  twenty  years'  experience 
she  blamed  fate  because,  not  knowing  that  the  first 
principle  of  happiness  lies  within  ourselves,  she 
demanded  it  from  the  realities  of  life.  She  would 
have  fled  to  the  ends  of  the  earth  to  avoid  marriages 
similar  to  those  of  her  two  sisters;  and,  notwith- 
standing, she  felt  an  awful  jealousy  in  her  heart 
in  seeing  them  married,  rich,  and  happy.  At  last, 
she  sometimes  caused  her  mother — victim  of  her 
proceedings  as  much  as  was  Monsieur  de  Fontaine 
— to  think  that  she  was  a  little  crack-brained.  This 
aberration  was  sufficiently  explicable;  there  is 
nothing  more  common  than  this  secret  pride  in  the 
hearts  of  young  persons  belonging  to  families  rank- 
ing high  in  the  social  ladder,  and  gifted  by  nature 
with  great  beauty.  Most  of  them  are  persuaded 
that  their  mothers,  having  reached  forty  or  fifty 
years  of  age,  can  neither  sympathize  with  their 
youthful  minds,  nor  enter  into  their  fancies.  They 
imagine  that  most  mothers,  jealous  of  their  daugh- 
ters, wish  to  dress  them  according  to  their  own 
ideas  with  the  premeditated  design  of  eclipsing 
them  or  robbing  them  of  their  tribute.  From  this, 
there  often  arise  secret  tears  or  quiet  revolt  against 
the  imaginary  maternal  tyranny.  In  the  midst  of 
these  sorrows,  which  become  real,  though  built 
upon  imaginary  grounds,  they  further  have  a  mania 
for   composing    a    theme   for    their   existence   and 


Il6  THE  DANCE  AT  SCEAUX 

prophesy  for  themselves  a  brilliant  horoscope;  their 
magic  consists  in  taking  their  dreams  as  realities; 
they  secretly  resolve,  in  their  lengthy  meditations, 
that  they  will  grant  their  love  and  hand  only  to  the 
man  who  shall  possess  such  and  such  an  advantage; 
they  form  a  type  in  their  imaginations  which  their 
intended,  willing  or  unwilling,  must  resemble. 
After  having  experienced  life  and  made  the  serious 
reflections  that  come  with  years,  by  dint  of  seeing 
the  world  and  its  prosaic  course,  by  dint  of  unhappy 
examples,  the  bright  colors  of  their  ideal  figure 
become  extinct;  then  they  find  themselves  one  fine 
day,  in  the  course  of  time,  quite  astonished  at  being 
happy  without  the  nuptial  poetry  of  their  dreams. 
According  to  this  poetry.  Mademoiselle  Emilie  de 
Fontaine  had,  in  her  frail  wisdom,  resolved  upon  a 
programme  to  which  her  suitor  must  conform  in 
order  to  be  accepted.  Hence,  her  scorn  and  sarcasms. 
"Although  young  and  of  the  old  nobility,"  she 
had  said  to  herself,  "he  must  be  a  peer  of  France  or 
the  eldest  son  of  a  peer.  It  would  be  unbearable 
not  to  see  my  coat-of-arms  painted  on  the  panels  of 
my  carriage  in  the  middle  of  the  fluttering  folds  of 
an  azure  mantle,  and  not  to  stroll  with  princes  on 
the  days  of  Longchamp  in  the  great  walk  of  the 
Champs-Elysees.  Moreover,  my  father  says  that 
that  will  one  day  be  the  highest  dignity  in  France. 
1  want  him  to  be  a  military  man,  reserving  to  my- 
self the  right  of  making  him  tender  his  resignation, 
and  I  want  him  to  be  decorated  so  that  they  may 
present  arms  to  us." 


THE  DANCE  AT  SCEAUX  1 17 

These  rare  qualifications  would  be  of  no  use  if 
this  imaginary  being  did  not  possess  in  addition,  a 
great  amiability,  a  handsome  appearance,  intellect, 
and  if  he  were  not  slender. 

Thinness,  this  grace  of  body,  however  transitory, 
particularly  in  a  government  representative,  was  a 
strict  stipulation.  Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine  had  a 
certain  ideal  standard  which  served  as  a  model. 
The  young  man  who,  at  the  first  glance,  did  not 
fulfill  the  desired  conditions  never  obtained  even  a 
second  look. 

"Oh!  mon  Dieu!  see  how  fat  that  man  is!"  was 
her  highest  expression  of  contempt. 

According  to  her,  men  of  a  decent  corpulence 
were  incapable  of  sentiment,  bad  husbands  and  un- 
worthy of  entering  civilized  society.  Although  em- 
bonpoint m\g\\t  be  a  beauty  much  sought  after  in  the 
East,  it  seemed  to  her  a  misfortune  in  women;  but, 
in  a  man,  it  was  a  crime.  These  paradoxical 
opinions  were  amusing  owing  to  a  certain  liveliness 
of  elocution.  Nevertheless,  the  count  felt  that 
later  on  his  daughter's  affectations,  whose  absurdity 
would  be  detected  by  certain  women  who  were  as 
clear-sighted  as  they  were  uncharitable,  would 
become  a  fatal  subject  of  ridicule.  He  dreaded  lest 
his  daughter's  odd  ideas  might  turn  into  vulgarity. 
He  trembled  lest  the  pitiless  world  should  be  already 
jeering  at  a  person  who  remained  so  long  on  the 
scenes  without  giving  any  conclusion  to  the  comedy 
she  was  playing.  More  than  one  actor,  smarting 
under  a  refusal,  seemed  to  be  awaiting  the  least 


Il8  THE   DANCE  AT  SCEAUX 

unlucky  incident  to  avenge  himself.  Idle  and  in- 
different people  were  beginning  to  weary  of  it; 
admiration  is  always  an  effort  for  the  human  spe- 
cies. The  old  Vendean  knew  better  than  anyone 
that  if  it  is  necessary  to  be  skilful  in  choosing  the 
right  moment  of  appearing  upon  the  boards  of  soci- 
ety, those  of  the  Court,  in  a  drawing-room  or  on  the 
stage,  it  was  still  more  difficult  to  walk  off  oppor- 
tunely. So,  during  the  first  winter  following  the 
accession  of  Charles  X.  to  the  throne,  he  redoubled 
his  efforts,  conjointly  with  his  three  sons  and  his 
sons-in-law,  to  assemble  in  his  salons  the  best 
matches  that  Paris  and  the  different  provincial  depu- 
tations could  offer.  The  splendor  of  his  entertain- 
ments, the  magnificence  of  his  dining-room  and  his 
dinners  flavored  with  truffles,  vied  with  the  famous 
repasts  with  which  the  ministers  of  the  period  se- 
cured the  votes  of  their  parliamentary  soldiers. 

The  honorable  deputy  was  at  that  time  pointed 
out  as  one  of  the  most  powerful  corrupters  of  the 
legislative  honesty  of  that  illustrious  Chamber  which 
appeared  to  be  dying  of  indigestion.  Strange!  his 
attempts  to  marry  his  daughter  secured  him  a 
dazzling  popularity.  He  may  perhaps  have  found 
some  secret  advantage  in  selling  his  truffles  twice 
over.  This  accusation,  proceeding  from  certain 
liberal  scoffers  who  made  up  for  the  scarcity  of  their 
adherents  in  the  Chamber  by  the  abundance  of 
their  words,  was  in  no  way  successful.  The  con- 
duct of  thepoitevin  nobleman  was  generally  so  noble 
and  so  honorable,  that  he  was  never  submitted  to 


THE   DANCE  AT  SCEAUX  II9 

one  of  those  epigrams  with  which  the  spiteful  jour- 
nals of  this  period  attacked  the  three  hundred  voters 
of  the  Centre,  the  ministers,  the  cooks,  the  directors- 
general,  the  princes  of  the  trencher  and  the 
upholders  of  office  who  supported  the  Villele  admin- 
istration. At  the  end  of  this  campaign,  during 
which  Monsieur  de  Fontaine  had  repeatedly  fought 
all  his  troops,  he  fancied  that  his  collectors  of 
suitors  would  not  be,  this  time,  a  phantasmagoria  to 
his  daughter.  He  felt  a  certain  inward  satisfaction 
at  having  well  fulfilled  his  duty  as  a  father.  Then, 
after  having  left  no  stone  unturned,  he  hoped  that 
amidst  so  many  hearts  offered  to  the  capricious 
Emilie  there  might  be  found  at  least  one  whom  she 
would  single  out.  Incapable  of  renewing  this  effort 
and  tired,  besides,  of  his  daughter's  conduct,  he  re- 
solved to  consult  her,  towards  the  end  of  Lent,  one 
morning  when  his  vote  was  not  so  urgently  required 
at  the  sitting  of  the  Chamber.  Whilst  a  valet 
artistically  arranged  upon  his  yellow  skull  the  delta 
of  powder  which,  with  the  hanging  side  curls,  com- 
pleted his  venerable  headdress,  Emilie's  father 
ordered  his  old  valet-de-chambre,  not  without  secret 
trepidation,  to  go  and  tell  the  proud  young  lady  to 
appear  immediately  before  the  head  of  the  family. 

"Joseph,"  he  said,  the  moment  he  had  finished 
his  coiffure,  "take  away  this  towel,  pull  the  cur- 
tains, put  those  chairs  in  order,  shake  the  hearthrug 
and  put  it  back  quite  straight,  wipe  everything. 
Come  now!  open  the  window  and  let  a  little  air 
into  my  closet."     The  count  repeated  his  orders,  put 


I20  THE   DANCE   AT   SCEAUX 

Joseph  out  of  breath,  who,  understanding  his  mas- 
ter's purpose,  restored  some  freshness  to  this  room 
which  was  naturally  the  most  untidy  in  the  whole 
house,  and  succeeded  in  communicating  some  sort  of 
harmony  to  the  masses  of  accounts,  half-sheets, 
books  and  furniture  of  this  sanctuary  in  which  the 
interests  of  the  royal  domain  were  debated. 

When  Joseph  had  finished  putting  some  small 
order  into  this  chaos  and  placing  conspicuously,  as 
in  a  linendraper's  shop,  the  things  that  might  be  the 
nicest  to  look  at,  or  by  their  colors  produce  a  sort 
of  bureaucratic  poetry,  he  stopped  in  the  middle  of 
the  labyrinth  of  papers  spread  in  some  places  upon 
the  carpet,  admired  himself  for  a  moment,  tossed 
his  head  and  went  out. 

The  poor  sinecurist  did  not  share  the  good  opinion 
of  his  servant.  Before  seating  himself  in  his 
enormous  armchair,  he  cast  round  a  look  of  distrust, 
examined  his  dressing-gown  with  an  air  of 
hostility,  brushed  from  it  several  grains  of  snuff, 
carefully  wiped  his  nose,  arranged  the  shovel  and 
tongs,  stirred  up  the  fire,  drew  up  the  flaps  of  his 
slippers,  threw  back  his  little  pigtail  which  had 
lodged  horizontally  between  the  collar  of  his  vest 
and  that  of  his  dressing-gown,  and  returned  it  to 
its  perpendicular  position;  then  he  gave  a  thrust 
with  the  broom  at  the  cinders  on  a  hearth  that 
testified  to  the  obstinacy  of  his  catarrh.  Finally 
the  old  man  did  not  sit  down  until  after  he  had  once 
more  reviewed  his  closet,  hoping  that  nothing  in  it 
might  call  forth  those  equally  droll  and  impertinent 


THE   DANCE  AT  SCEAUX  121 

remarks  with  which  his  daughter  had  a  habit  of 
answering  his  wise  counsel.  Upon  this  occasion  he 
did  not  want  to  compromise  his  paternal  dignity. 
He  daintily  took  a  pinch  of  snuff  and  coughed  two 
or  three  times  as  if  he  were  preparing  to  request 
the  call  of  the  House;  he  heard  his  daughter's  light 
step,  she  came  in  humming  an  air  from  //  Barbiere. 

"Good-morning,  father.  What  do  you  want 
with  me  this  morning?" 

After  these  words,  thrown  off  as  if  they  were  a 
flourish  to  the  tune  she  was  singing,  she  kissed  the 
count,  not  with  that  familiar  tenderness  which 
makes  the  filial  feeling  so  sweet,  but  with  the  light 
indifference  of  a  mistress  who  is  sure  of  pleasing, 
whatever  she  may  do. 

"My  dear  child,"  said  Monsieur  de  Fontaine, 
gravely,  "I  sent  for  you  in  order  to  talk  very  seri- 
ously with  you  about  your  future.  The  necessity 
for  you  now  to  choose  a  husband  in  such  a  way  as 
to  ensure  your  lasting  happiness — " 

"My  good  father,"  answered  Emilie,  using  the 
most  caressing  tone  of  voice  to  interrupt  him,  "it 
seems  to  me  that  the  armistice  we  agreed  upon 
regarding  my  suitors  has  not  yet  expired." 

"Emilie,  to-day  let  us  stop  joking  on  so  impor- 
tant a  subject.  For  some  time,  the  efforts  of  those 
who  truly  love  you,  dear  child,  have  been  combined 
to  procure  you  a  suitable  marriage  and  you  will  be 
guilty  of  ingratitude  in  lightly  receiving  the  proofs 
of  interest  which  I  am  not  the  only  one  to  lavish 
upon  you." 


122  THE  DANCE  AT  SCEAUX 

While  listening  to  these  words,  and  after  darting 
a  maliciously  inquiring  glance  at  the  furniture  of 
the  paternal  cabinet,  the  young  girl  went  and  took 
the  chair  that  appeared  to  have  been  the  least  used 
by  petitioners,  drew  it  herself  to  the  other  side  of 
the  fireplace  so  as  to  face  her  father,  struck  so 
solemn  an  attitude  that  it  was  almost  impossible 
not  to  see  signs  of  derision,  and  crossed  her  arms 
over  the  rich  trimming  of  a  tippet  a  la  neige,  piti- 
lessly crumpling  its  numerous  frills  of  tulle.  After 
a  laughing  side-glance  at  her  old  father's  anxious 
face,  she  broke  the  silence. 

"I  have  never  heard  you  say,  dear  father,  that 
government  transacted  its  correspondence  in  a 
dressing-gown.  But,"  she  added,  smiling,  "no 
matter,  the  people  must  not  be  particular.  Let  us 
hear  your  legal  projects  and  your  official  presenta- 
tions." 

"I  shall  not  always  have  the  patience  to  make 
them  for  you,  foolish  child!  Listen,  Emilie.  I  do 
not  intend  any  longer  to  compromise  my  character, 
to  which  my  children  owe  part  of  their  prosperity, 
by  recruiting  this  regiment  of  partners  that  you  put 
to  flight  every  spring.  You  have  already  been  the 
foolish  cause  of  many  dangerous  misunderstandings 
with  certain  families.  I  hope  that  you  will  now 
better  understand  the  difficulties  of  your  position 
and  of  ours.  You  are  twenty-two  years  old,  child, 
and  you  ought  to  have  been  married  three  years 
ago.  Your  brothers  and  your  two  sisters  are  all 
prosperously  and  happily  settled.     But,  my  child. 


THE  DANCE  AT  SCEAUX  123 

the  expenses  incurred  in  these  marriages  and  the 
style  of  the  establishment  you  oblige  your  mother  to 
maintain  have  drained  our  income  to  such  an  extent, 
that  I  shall  barely  be  able  to  give  you  a  hundred 
thousand  francs  dowry.  From  to-day,  I  must  think 
of  your  mother's  future,  for  she  ought  not  to  be  sac- 
rificed to  her  children.  Emilie,  if  1  were  to  be  taken 
away,  Madame  de  Fontaine  could  not  be  left  to  the 
mercy  of  anyone,  and  must  continue  to  enjoy  the 
comforts  with  which  I  have  too  late  compensated 
her  for  her  devotion  during  my  misfortunes.  You 
see,  my  child,  that  the  slenderness  of  your  dowry 
could  not  harmonize  with  your  ideas  of  grandeur. 
It  will  still  be  a  sacrifice  1  have  never  made  for  any 
other  of  my  children,  but  they  have  generously 
agreed  never  to  take  advantage  of  the  interest  we 
are  taking  in  a  well-beloved  child." 

"In  their  position!"  said  Emilie  ironically,  toss- 
ing her  head. 

"My  child,  never  depreciate  thus  those  who  love 
you.  You  must  know  that  only  generous  people 
are  poor!  The  rich  always  have  excellent  reasons 
for  not  giving  up  twenty  thousand  francs  to  a  rela- 
tion. Well,  don't  sulk,  my  child,  and  let  us  talk 
rationally.  Amongst  the  marriageable  young  men, 
have  you  not  remarked  Monsieur  de  Manerville?" 

"Oh!  he  says  '^eu'  instead  of  ' jeu,'  he  always 
looks  at  his  feet  because  he  thinks  they  are  small, 
and  looks  at  himself  in  the  glass!  Besides,  he  is 
fair,  and  I  don't  like  fair  people." 

"Well  then,  Monsieur  de  Beaudenard .''" 


124  THE  DANCE  AT  SCEAUX 

"He  is  not  noble.  He  is  badly  made  and  fat. 
Certainly  he  is  dark.  These  two  gentlemen  ought 
to  agree  to  unite  their  incomes,  and  let  the  first  give 
his  body  and  name  to  the  second  who  should  keep 
his  hair,  and  then — perhaps — " 

"What  have  you  against  Monsieur  de  Rastignac  ?" 

"Madame  de  Nucingen  has  made  him  her  bank- 
er," she  said,  maliciously. 

"And  the  Vicomte  de  Portenduere,  our  relative?" 

"A  boy  who  dances  badly,  and,  moreover,  has  no 
money.  In  short,  father,  these  men  have  no  title. 
I  must  be  at  least  a  countess  as  my  mother  is." 

"Then  you  have  seen  nobody  this  winter 
who—?" 

"No,  father.' 

"What  do  you  want  then?" 

"The  son  of  a  peer  of  France." 

"My  child,  you  are  mad!"  said  Monsieur  de  Fon- 
taine, rising. 

But  he  suddenly  lifted  his  eyes  to  heaven,  seem- 
ing to  gather  a  fresh  measure  of  resignation  from 
some  religious  thought;  then,  looking  at  his  child 
with  a  look  of  fatherly  pity,  which  became  one  of 
emotion,  he  took  her  hand,  squeezed  it,  and  said  to 
her  sadly : 

"God  is  my  witness,  poor  misguided  creature!  I 
have  conscientiously  fulfilled  my  duty  as  a  father 
toward  you— what  do  I  say,  conscientiously?  with 
all  tenderness,  my  Emilie.  Yes,  God  knows,  this 
winter  1  have  brought  you  more  than  one  upright 
man  whose  qualities,    morals   and  character  were 


THE  DANCE  AT  SCEAUX  125 

well-known  to  me,  and  all  seemed  worthy  of  you. 
My  child,  my  task  is  complete.  From  to-day,  I 
give  you  the  disposal  of  your  own  lot,  feeling  both 
happy  and  unhappy  in  finding  myself  relieved  of 
the  heaviest  of  paternal  obligations.  I  do  not  know 
if  you  will  much  longer  hear  a  voice  which,  unfor- 
tunately, has  never  been  severe ;  but  remember  that 
conjugal  happiness  is  not  so  much  based  upon  bril- 
liant qualities  and  upon  wealth,  as  upon  a  mutual 
esteem.  This  happiness  is,  naturally,  modest  and 
quiet.  Go,  my  child;  my  approbation  is  insured 
for  him  whom  you  present  to  me  as  son-in-law;  but, 
if  you  become  unhappy,  remember  that  you  will 
have  no  right  to  accuse  your  father.  I  will  not 
refuse  to  make  overtures  and  help  you;  only,  let 
your  choice  be  serious  and  decisive;  I  will  not  twice 
endanger  the  respect  due  to  my  gray  hairs." 

The  affection  shown  her  by  her  father,  and  the 
solemn  tone  which  he  put  into  his  impressive  speech, 
deeply  touched  Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine;  but  she 
concealed  her  emotion,  jumped  on  to  the  count's 
knees,  who,  all  trembling,  had  seated  himself,  and 
covered  him  with  the  gentlest  caresses,  and  petted 
him  so  charmingly  that  the  old  man's  brow  cleared. 
When  Emilie  thought  her  father  had  recovered  from 
his  painful  emotion,  she  said  to  him  in  a  low  voice: 

"Thank  you  very  much  for  your  kind  care,  dear 
father.  You  had  tidied  your  room  to  receive  your 
beloved  daughter.  Perhaps  you  did  not  think  to 
find  her  so  foolish  and  rebellious.  But,  father,  is 
it  so  very  difficult  to  marry  a  peer  of  France?     You 


126  THE   DANCE  AT  SCEAUX 

said  that  they  were  made  by  the  dozen.     Ah !  at 
least  you  will  not  refuse  me  advice." 

"No,  no,  poor  child,  and  I  shall  say  more  than 
once,  'Take  care!'  You  must  remember  that  the 
peerage  is  too  recent  a  department  of  our  gouverne- 
mentabilite  as  the  late  king  used  to  say,  for  peers  to 
possess  any  great  fortunes.  Those  who  are  rich 
want  to  become  still  more  so.  The  wealthiest  of  all 
the  members  of  our  peerage  has  not  half  the  income 
possessed  by  the  poorest  lord  in  the  Upper  House 
in  England.  But,  the  peers  of  France  will  all  seek 
rich  heiresses  for  their  sons,  no  matter  where  they 
come  from.  The  necessity  under  which  they  all 
are  for  making  money  matches  will  last  more  than 
two  centuries.  It  is  possible  that  in  waiting  for  the 
lucky  chance  you  wish  for,  a  search  that  may  cost 
you  your  best  years,  your  charms — for  there  are 
many  marriages  for  love  in  our  century — your 
charms,  I  say,  may  work  a  miracle.  When  experi- 
ence is  hidden  beneath  such  a  fresh  face  as  yours, 
one  may  hope  for  marvels.  In  the  first  place,  have 
you  not  a  facility  for  recognizing  virtue  according 
to  the  greater  or  less  size  of  the  figure?  That  is  no 
small  accomplishment.  I  also  need  not  warn  so 
wise  a  person  as  yourself  of  the  difficulties  of  the 
enterprise.  I  am  certain  that  you  will  never  take 
it  for  granted  that  a  stranger  has  good  sense  because 
he  has  a  pleasing  face,  or  virtues  because  he  has  a 
fine  shape.  In  fact,  I  am  entirely  of  your  opinion 
that  all  sons  of  peers  are  under  an  obligation  of 
having  a  particular  air  and  a  distinctive  manner. 


THE   DANCE  AT  SCEAUX  1 27 

Although  now-a-days  nothing  stamps  high  rank, 
these  young  men  may  possess  3.  je  ne  sais  quoi  which 
reveals  them  to  you.  Moreover,  you  hold  your 
heart  in  hand  like  a  good  rider  who  never  lets  his 
horse  stumble.     Good  luck  to  you,  my  child!" 

"You  are  laughing  at  me,  father.  Well  then,  I 
declare  I  would  rather  go  and  die  in  Mademoiselle 
de  Conde's  convent,  than  not  become  the  wife  of  a 
peer  of  France." 

She  escaped  from  her  father's  arms,  and,  proud  of 
being  her  own  mistress,  went  off  singing  the  air 
Cara  non  dubitare  from  Matrimonio  Segreto.  As  it 
happened,  the  family  that  day  was  celebrating  the 
anniversary  of  a  domestic  birthday.  At  dessert, 
Madame  Planat,  wife  of  the  receiver-general  and 
Emilie's  elder,  spoke  rather  openly  of  a  young 
American,  owning  an  immense  fortune,  who,  pas- 
sionately in  love  with  her  sister,  had  made  her  an 
extremely  brilliant  offer. 

"He  is  a  banker,  I  think,"  said  Emilie,  carelessly. 
"I  don't  like  financiers." 

"But,  Emilie,"  answered  the  Baron  de  Villaine, 
husband  to  Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine's  second  sis- 
ter, "you  don't  like  the  magistracy  any  better,  so 
that  1  hardly  see,  if  you  repulse  untitled  men,  from 
what  class  you  are  to  select  a  husband." 

"Especially,  Emilie,  with  your  system  of  thin- 
ness,"  added  the  lieutenant-general. 

"1  know  what  1  want,"  answered  the  young  girl. 

"My  sister  requires  a  fine  name,  a  handsome 
young  man,  a  brilliant  future,"  said  the  Baronne  de 


128  THE  DANCE  AT  SCEAUX 

Fontaine,  "and  a  hundred  thousand  francs  income; 
in  short,  Monsieur  de  Marsay,  for  instance!" 

"I  know,  my  dear  sister,"  returned  Emilie,  "that 
I  shall  not  make  such  an  absurd  marriage  as  many 
that  I  have  seen.  However,  to  avoid  these  nuptial 
discussions,  I  declare  that  I  shall  look  upon  those 
who  talk  to  me  of  marriage  as  inimical  to  my 
peace." 

An  uncle  of  Emilie's,  a  vice-admiral  who  in  con- 
sequence of  the  law  of  indemnity  had  just  increased 
his  fortune  by  an  income  of  twenty  thousand 
pounds,  an  old  septuagenarian  who  was  privileged  to 
say  hard  truths  to  his  great-niece,  whom  he  adored, 
cried,  in  order  to  divert  the  sharpness  of  this  con- 
versation : 

"Don't  tease  my  poor  Emilie!  don't  you  see  she 
is  waiting  for  the  Due  de  Bordeaux's  coming  of  age  ?" 

A  general  laugh  greeted  the  old  man's  joke. 

"Take  care  I  do  not  marry  you,  old  fool !"  retorted 
the  young  girl,  whose  last  words  were  happily 
deadened  by  the  noise. 

"Children,"  said  Madame  de  Fontaine  to  soften 
this  impertinence,  "Emilie,  like  the  rest  of  you,  will 
only  consult  her  mother." 

"Oh!  mon  Dieu!  I  shall  only  consult  myself  in 
a  matter  that  concerns  none  but  myself,"  said  Ma- 
demoiselle de  Fontaine  very  distinctly. 

All  eyes  were  then  directed  to  the  head  of  the 
family.  Everyone  seemed  curious  to  see  how  he 
would  manage  to  preserve  his  dignity.  The  vener- 
able Vendean    not   only   enjoyed   great  esteem    in 


THE   DANCE  AT  SCEAUX  1 29 

society,  but,  more  fortunate  than  many  fathers,  he 
was  also  appreciated  by  his  family,  all  the  mem- 
bers of  which  had  known  how  to  recognize  the  solid 
qualities  which  had  helped  him  to  make  the  fortune 
of  all  who  belonged  to  him;  he  was  also  associated 
with  that  profound  respect  shown  by  English  fami- 
lies and  several  aristocratic  houses  on  the  continent 
to  a  representative  of  the  genealogical  tree.  There 
was  a  deep  silence,  and  the  eyes  of  the  guests 
traveled  alternately  from  the  spoiled  child's  sulky 
and  haughty  countenance,  to  the  stern  faces  of  Mon- 
sieur and  Madame  de  Fontaine. 

"I  have  left  Emilie  mistress  of  her  own  fate," 
was  the  answer  that  fell  from  the  count  in  a  deep 
voice. 

The  relations  and  guests  then  looked  at  Mademoi- 
selle de  Fontaine  with  curiosity,  mingled  with  pity. 
These  words  seemed  to  indicate  that  the  paternal 
kindness  was  tired  of  struggling  with  a  character 
that  the  family  knew  to  be  incorrigible.  The  sons- 
in-law  murmured,  and  the  brothers  smiled  mock- 
ingly at  their  wives. 

From  that  time,  each  ceased  to  be  interested  in 
the  marriage  of  the  proud  girl.  Her  old  uncle  was 
the  only  one  who,  in  his  capacity  of  old  sailor,  dared 
to  tack  round  her  and  encounter  her  sallies,  without 
being  afraid  of  giving  her  shot  for  shot. 

When  the  fine  weather  came  after  the  vote  of  the 

budget,  this  family,  true  pattern  of  parliamentary 

families  on  the  other  side  of  the  Channel,  who  have 

a  finger  in  all  the  administrations  and  ten  votes  in 

9 


130  THE  DANCE  AT  SCEAUX 

the  Commons,  fled,  like  a  lot  of  birds,  to  the  beauti- 
ful sites  of  Aulnay,  Antony  and  Ch^tenay.  The 
wealthy  receiver-general  had  recently  purchased,  in 
his  parts,  a  country-house  for  his  wife,  who  only 
remained  in  Paris  during  the  sessions.  Although 
the  lovely  Emilie  despised  plebeians,  this  feeling 
was  not  carried  so  far  as  to  disdain  the  advantages 
of  the  fortune  amassed  by  the  bourgeois;  so  she 
accompanied  her  sister  to  her  sumptuous  villa,  not 
so  much  out  of  love  for  the  members  of  her  family 
who  went  there,  but  because  good  breeding  imperi- 
ously demands  that  every  self-respecting  woman 
should  leave  Paris  during  the  summer.  The  green 
fields  of  Sceaux  admirably  fulfilled  the  conditions 
exacted  by  good  breeding  and  the  discharge  of  pub- 
lic functions. 


As  it  is  rather  doubtful  whether  the  fame  of  the 
country  ball  at  Sceaux  has  ever  reached  beyond  the 
limits  of  the  province  of  the  Seine,  it  is  necessary 
to  give  some  particulars  about  this  weekly  festivity 
which,  from  its  importance,  threatened  to  become  an 
institution.  The  surroundings  of  the  little  town  of 
Sceaux  enjoy  a  reputation,  due  to  scenery  which  is 
considered  lovely.  Possibly  it  is  very  common- 
place and  only  owes  its  celebrity  to  the  stupidity  of 
the  Paris  bourgeois,  who,  in  leaving  the  abyss  of 
bricks  in  which  they  are  buried,  would  be  disposed 
to  admire  the  plains  of  Beauce.  And  yet  the  ro- 
mantic shades  of  Aulnay,  the  hills  of  Antony,  and 
the  valley  of  Bievre  being  inhabited  by  several 
artists  who  have  traveled,  by  strangers,  very  fas- 
tidious people,  and  by  numbers  of  pretty  women 
who  are  not  wanting  in  style,  it  is  to  be  presumed 
that  the  Parisians  have  some  excuse.  But  Sceaux 
has  one  other  attraction  which  appeals  no  less  forci- 
bly to  the  Parisian.  In  the  middle  of  a  garden  from 
whence  some  delicious  views  are  obtained,  is  an 
immense  rotunda,  open  on  all  sides,  the  dome  of 
which — as  airy  as  it  is  big — is  supported  by  grace- 
ful pillars.  This  rustic  dais  shelters  a  dancing-hall. 
It  was  no  uncommon  thing  for  the  most  strait-laced 
proprietors  of  the  neighborhood  to  emigrate  once  or 
twice  during   the   season  to  this  palace  of  rustic 

(131) 


132  THE  DANCE  AT  SCEAUX 

Terpsichore,  either  in  brilliant  cavalcades,  or  in 
those  elegant  and  light  carriages  that  sprinkle  phil- 
osophic pedestrians  with  dust.  The  hope  of  meet- 
ing some  of  the  society  women  and  of  being  seen  by 
them,  the  hope — less  seldom  baffled — of  seeing  the 
young  peasant  women,  as  subtle  as  judges,  brought 
together  on  Sundays,  at  the  ball  of  Sceaux,  number- 
less swarms  of  lawyers'  clerks,  disciples  of  Escula- 
pius,  and  young  men  whose  white  complexion  and 
bloom  are  sustained  by  the  damp  air  of  the  Parisian 
back-shops. 

The  foundations  of  a  good  many  bourgeois 
marriages  are  also  laid  to  the  strains  of  the  orches- 
tra that  occupies  the  centre  of  this  circular  hall.  If 
the  roof  could  speak,  what  love  affairs  could  it  not 
relate?  This  interesting  medley  at  that  time  gave 
more  piquancy  to  the  ball  of  Sceaux  than  the  two  or 
three  other  dances  in  the  neighborhood  of  Paris,  its 
rotunda,  the  beauty  of  its  position  and  the  pleas- 
ures of  its  garden  giving  it  indisputable  advantages 
over  any  others.  Emilie  was  the  first  to  express  a 
wish  to  go  and  make  one  of  the  crowd  at  this  merry 
ball  of  the  district,  promising  herself  great  pleasure 
in  joining  this  assembly.  Everyone  was  astonished 
at  her  desire  to  wander  into  the  heart  of  such  a 
crowd;  but  do  not  great  folks  keenly  enjoy  the  un- 
known? Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine  amused  herself 
by  picturing  all  these  cockney  figures,  fancied  her- 
self leaving  the  memory  in  more  than  one  bourgeois 
heart  of  a  bewitching  glance  and  smile,  already 
chuckled  over  the  affectations  of  the  dancers,  and 


THE  DANCE  AT  SCEAUX  1 33 

sharpened  her  pencils  for  the  scenes  with  which  she 
expected  to  adorn  the  pages  of  her  satirical  album. 
Sunday  did  not  arrive  fast  enough  to  suit  her  im- 
patience. The  party  from  the  Planat  house  set  out 
on  foot,  in  order  not  to  commit  the  indiscretion  of 
numbering  as  people  who  wished  to  honor  the  ball 
with  their  presence.  They  had  dined  early.  In 
fact,  the  month  of  May  favored  this  aristocratic  es- 
capade with  one  of  her  finest  nights.  Mademoi- 
selle de  Fontaine  was  quite  surprised  at  finding, 
under  the  rotunda,  several  quadrilles  composed  of 
persons  who  appeared  to  belong  to  good  society. 
She  certainly  saw  here  and  there  some  young  peo- 
ple who  seemed  to  have  spent  the  savings  of  a 
month  to  make  a  show  for  one  day,  and  observed 
several  couples  whose  unmixed  joy  argued  nothing 
conjugal ;  but  she  only  had  to  glean  instead  of  reap- 
ing. She  was  surprised  to  see  pleasure  dressed  in 
cambric  strongly  resembling  pleasure  decked  in 
satin,  and  the  bourgeoisie  dancing  with  as  much 
grace  as — sometimes  more  than — the  nobility.  Most 
of  the  dresses  were  simple  and  neatly  arranged. 
Those  who,  in  this  assembly,  represented  the  lords 
of  the  land,  that  is  to  say,  the  peasants,  remained  in 
their  corner  with  incredible  politeness.  Mademoi- 
selle de  Fontaine,  to  a  certain  extent,  even  had  to 
examine  the  different  elements  composing  this  gath- 
ering before  she  could  find  one  object  of  derision. 
But  she  had  neither  the  time  to  devote  herself  to  her 
malicious  criticisms,  nor  the  leisure  to  hear  many  of 
those  striking  remarks  preserved  by  caricaturists 


134  THE  DANCE  AT  SCEAUX 

with  delight.  The  haughty  creature  suddenly  met 
in  this  vast  field,  a  flower — the  metaphor  is  season- 
able— whose  brilliancy  and  color  worked  upon  her 
imagination  with  all  the  fascination  of  a  novelty. 
It  often  happens  that  we  look  at  a  dress,  hangings, 
or  a  white  paper  with  so  much  absent-mindedness 
that  we  do  not  immediately  perceive  a  spot  or 
some  brilliant  point  which  later  on  suddenly  strikes 
our  eye  as  if  it  had  come  there  at  the  moment 
only  that  we  notice  it;  by  some  kind  of  moral  phe- 
nomena rather  like  this.  Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine 
recognized  in  a  young  man  the  model  of  exterior 
perfection  that  she  had  dreamed  of  so  long. 

Seated  on  one  of  those  rough  chairs  that  formed 
the  necessary  circle  round  the  hall,  she  had  placed 
herself  at  the  extremity  of  the  group  made  by  the 
family  so  that  she  might  be  able  to  get  up  or  stretch 
forward,  as  she  liked,  in  conforming  herself  to  the 
living  pictures  and  groups  presented  in  this  hall, 
just  as  at  the  exhibitions  at  the  Musee,  she  would 
impertinently  turn  her  eyeglass  upon  a  person  who 
might  happen  to  be  two  feet  away,  and  would  make 
her  reflections  upon  them  as  if  she  were  criticising 
or  praising  a  study  of  a  head,  or  a  genre  painting. 
Her  eyes,  after  having  wandered  over  this  vast  an- 
imated canvas,  were  suddenly  arrested  by  this 
figure  which  seemed  to  have  been  purposely  placed 
in  one  corner  of  the  tableau,  in  the  most  charming 
way,  like  some  character  out  of  all  proportion  to  the 
rest.  The  dreamy,  solitary  stranger  was  leaning 
lightly  against  one  of  the  columns  that  supported 


THE  DANCE  AT  SCEAUX  1 35 

the  roof,  with  his  arms  crossed  and  holding  himself 
as  if  he  were  posing  to  an  artist  for  his  picture. 
Although  full  of  elegance  and  pride  this  attitude 
was  free  from  affectation.  No  sign  went  to  show 
that  he  had  placed  his  face  at  three-quarters  and 
slightly  bent  his  head  to  the  right,  like  Alexander 
or  Lord  Byron  and  some  other  great  men,  with  the 
sole  object  of  attracting  attention.  His  fixed  gaze 
followed  the  movements  of  one  of  the  dancers,  be- 
traying some  deep  feeling.  His  slender,  graceful 
figure  recalled  the  splendid  proportions  of  Apollo. 
Beautiful  black  hair  curled  naturally  on  his  high 
forehead.  With  a  single  glance  Mademoiselle  de 
Fontaine  noticed  the  nicety  of  his  linen,  his  fresh 
kid  gloves  evidently  from  the  best  maker,  and  his 
small  feet,  well  shod  in  boots  of  Irish  leather.  He 
wore  none  of  the  horrid  gewgaws  with  which  the 
old  dandies  of  the  National  Guard  or  the  Lovelaces 
of  the  counting-house  were  loaded.  Only  a  black 
ribbon,  to  which  his  eyeglass  was  hung,  fluttered 
over  a  waistcoat  of  irreproachable  cut.  The  fastid- 
ious Emilie  had  never  seen  the  eyes  of  any  man 
shadowed  by  such  long,  curved  eyelashes.  Melan- 
choly and  passion  breathed  in  this  face,  which  was 
distinguished  by  an  olive-colored,  manly  complex- 
ion. His  mouth  seemed  always  ready  to  smile  and 
to  lift  the  corners  of  two  eloquent  lips ;  but  this  ten- 
dency, far  from  being  the  result  of  gaiety,  rather 
revealed  a  kind  of  sad  charm.  There  was  too  much 
promise  in  the  head,  too  much  distinction  in  the 
appearance,    for   anyone  to  have   said,    "What  a 


136  THE  DANCE  AT  SCEAUX 

handsome  man,  or  a  fine  man!"  One  wished  to 
know  him.  Looking  at  the  stranger,  the  sharpest 
observer  could  not  have  avoided  taking  him  for 
some  man  of  talent  attracted  to  this  village  festivity 
by  some  powerful  interest. 

This  stock  of  observation  did  not  cost  Emilie 
more  than  a  moment's  attention,  during  which  this 
privileged  man,  submitted  to  a  severe  analysis, 
became  the  object  of  a  secret  admiration. 

She  did  not  say,  "He  must  be  a  peer  of  France!" 
but,  "Oh!  if  he  is  noble,  and  he  must  be — " 

Without  concluding  her  thought,  she  suddenly 
rose,  and  went,  followed  by  her  brother  the  lieuten- 
ant-general, toward  the  column,  apparently  looking 
at  the  lively  quadrilles;  but,  by  an  optical  trick 
well  known  to  women,  she  did  not  miss  the  young 
man's  slightest  movement,  as  she  approached.  The 
stranger  politely  moved  off  to  make  way  for  the  two 
newcomers  and  leaned  against  another  column. 
Emilie,  as  much  piqued  by  the  stranger's  politeness 
as  if  it  had  been  an  impertinence,  began  to  talk  to  her 
brother,  raising  her  voice  much  more  than  good 
breeding  required;  she  moved  her  head  about,  re- 
doubled her  gestures  and  laughed  without  much 
object,  not  so  much  to  amuse  her  brother  as  to  at- 
tract the  attention  of  the  imperturbable  stranger. 
None  of  these  little  stratagems  succeeded.  Ma- 
demoiselle de  Fontaine  then  followed  the  direction 
of  the  young  man's  eyes,  and  perceived  the  cause 
of  this  indifference. 

hi  the  middle  of  the  quadrille  in  front  of  her,  was 


THE  DANCE  AT  SCEAUX  1 37 

dancing  a  pale  young  girl,  like  those  Scotch  divini- 
ties placed  by  Girodet  in  his  enormous  composition 
of  Ossian  receiving  the  French  Warriors. 

Emilie  thought  she  recognized  in  her  an  illustrious 
lady  who  had  for  some  time  inhabited  a  neighboring 
country-house.  Her  cavalier  was  a  youth  of  fifteen 
with  red  hands,  nankeen  breeches,  blue  coat,  and 
white  shoes,  which  showed  that  her  love  of  dancing 
exceeded  her  fastidiousness  in  the  choice  of  partners. 
Her  movements  did  not  show  the  effects  of  her  ap- 
parent weakness;  but  a  slight  blush  already  tinged 
her  white  cheeks  and  her  color  began  to  revive. 

Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine  approached  the  quad- 
rille so  as  to  be  able  to  examine  the  stranger  the 
moment  she  returned  to  her  place,  whilst  the  vis-a- 
vis repeated  the  figure  she  was  doing.  But  the  un- 
known stepped  forward,  leaned  toward  the  pretty 
dancer,  and  the  inquisitive  Emilie  could  distinctly 
hear  these  words,  although  spoken  in  a  voice  that 
was  both  imperious  and  gentle: 

"Clara,  my  child,  don't  dance  any  more." 

Clara  gave  a  little  pout,  nodded  her  head  in  token 
of  obedience,  and  finished  by  smiling. 

After  the  quadrille,  the  young  man  took  all  a 
lover's  care  in  wrapping  a  cashmere  shawl  round 
the  young  girl's  shoulders,  and  made  her  sit  where 
she  was  sheltered  from  the  wind.  Then  presently, 
Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine,  who  saw  them  rise  and 
walk  round  the  enclosure  like  people  preparing  to 
leave,  found  some  means  of  following  them  under 
the  pretext  of  admiring  the  sights  of  the  garden. 


138  THE  DANCE  AT  SCEAUX 

Her  brother  lent  himself  with  mischievous  good- 
nature to  the  caprices  of  this  rather  aimless  walk. 
Emilie  then  saw  this  handsome  couple  getting  into 
an  elegant  tilbury  held  by  a  mounted  servant  in 
livery;  just  as  the  young  man,  from  the  height  of 
his  seat  was  adjusting  his  reins,  he  first  gave  her 
one  of  those  glances  that  one  casts  vaguely  at  a  big 
crowd ;  then  she  had  the  slender  satisfaction  of  see- 
ing him  turn  his  head  twice,  and  the  strange  young 
lady  did  the  same.     Was  it  jealousy? 

"I  presume  that  as  you  have  now  seen  enough  of 
the  garden,"  said  the  brother,  "we  can  go  back  to 
the  dance." 

"Willingly,"  she  replied,  "do  you  think  she  is  a 
relation  of  Lady  Dudley?" 

"Lady  Dudley  may  have  a  relation  staying  with 
her,"  answered  the  Baron  de  Fontaine,  "but  not  a 
young  lady." 

The  next  day  Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine  ex- 
pressed a  wish  to  ride.  By  degrees  she  accustomed 
her  old  uncle  and  her  brothers  to  accompanying  her 
on  certain  early  rides,  very  good,  she  said,  for  her 
health.  She  showed  a  singular  partiality  for  the 
surroundings  of  the  village  in  which  Lady  Dudley 
lived.  In  spite  of  her  cavalry  manoeuvres,  she  did 
not  see  the  stranger  again  so  soon  as  the  glad  pur- 
suit to  which  she  was  devoting  herself  had  led  her 
to  hope.  She  went  again  several  times  to  the  ball 
of  Sceaux,  without  succeeding  in  finding  the  young 
Englishman  who  had  fallen  from  the  skies  to  domi- 
nate and  beautify  her  dreams.     Although  nothing 


THE  DANCE  AT  SCEAUX  1 39 

Stimulates  the  dawning  love  of  a  young  girl  more 
than  an  obstacle,  there  were,  nevertheless,  moments 
when  Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine  was  on  the  point 
of  giving  up  her  strange  and  secret  pursuit,  almost 
despairing  of  the  success  of  her  enterprise,  whose 
singularity  may  give  some  idea  of  the  boldness  of 
her  character.  In  fact,  she  might  have  gone  round 
the  village  of  Ch^tenay  for  a  long  time  without  see- 
ing her  stranger.  The  young  Clara,  since  that  was 
the  name  overheard  by  Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine, 
was  not  English,  and  the  supposed  stranger  did  not 
inhabit  the  flowery,  perfumed  groves  of  Chatenay. 
One  evening,  Emilie  was  out  on  horseback  with 
her  uncle,  who  since  the  fme  weather  had  enjoyed 
a  fairly  long  cessation  of  hostilities  from  the  gout, 
when  they  met  Lady  Dudley.  Beside  the  illustrious 
lady  in  her  barouche  was  Monsieur  de  Vaudenesse. 
Emilie  recognized  the  handsome  couple,  and  her 
suppositions  were  dissipated  in  a  moment  like 
dreams. 

Vexed  like  all  women  disappointed  in  an  expecta- 
tion, she  turned  back  so  quickly,  that  her  uncle  had 
the  greatest  trouble  in  the  world  in  following  her,  so 
far  had  she  urged  on  her  pony. 

"Apparently  I  have  grown  too  old  to  understand 
people  of  twenty, "  said  the  sailor  to  himself,  put- 
ting his  horse  at  a  gallop,  "or  perhaps  youth  is  not 
what  it  was  in  the  old  days.  But  what  is  the  mat- 
ter with  my  niece  ?  There  she  is  walking  as  slowly 
as  a  gendarme  patrol ing  the  streets  of  Paris.  One 
might  think   she  wanted  to   hem    in   that  honest 


140  THE  DANCE  AT  SCEAUX 

bourgeois  who  looks  to  me  like  an  author  musing 
over  his  poems,  for  I  think  he  has  an  album  in  his 
hand.  Upon  my  word,  I  am  an  idiot!  May  it  not 
be  the  young  man  for  whom  we  are  searching?" 

At  this  thought,  the  old  sailor  slackened  his 
horse's  speed,  so  as  to  come  up  to  his  niece  without 
any  noise.  The  vice-admiral  had  committed  too 
much  mischief  in  the  year  1771  and  after,  a  period  of 
our  annals  when  gallantry  was  in  favor,  not  to 
guess  at  once  that  Emilie  had,  by  the  greatest 
chance,  met  the  unknown  of  the  Sceaux  ball.  In 
spite  of  the  mist  spread  by  age  over  his  gray  eyes, 
the  Comte  de  Kergarouet  recognized  the  signs  of  an 
unusual  agitation  in  his  niece,  despite  the  immobil- 
ity she  tried  to  impart  to  her  face.  The  young  girl's 
piercing  eyes  were  fixed  in  a  sort  of  stupor  upon 
the  stranger  quietly  walking  before  her. 

"Good!"  said  the  sailor  to  himself,  "she  will 
follow  him  as  a  merchant  vessel  follows  a  pirate. 
Then,  when  she  sees  him  disappearing,  she  will  be 
in  despair  at  not  knowing  who  it  is  she  loves,  and 
whether  it  is  a  marquis  or  a  bourgeois.  Really, 
young  heads  ought  always  to  have  an  old  fogy  by 
them,  like  myself — " 

He  suddenly  urged  his  horse  along  in  such  a  way 
as  to  start  off  his  niece's,  and  passed  so  rapidly  be- 
tween her  and  the  young  pedestrian  that  he  forced 
him  on  to  the  green  bank  bordering  the  roadside. 
Immediately  pulling  up  his  horse  the  count  cried: 

"Could  you  not  have  stood  aside?" 

"Ah!    I    beg   your   pardon,   sir,"   answered  the 


THE  DANCE  AT  SCEAUX  141 

stranger,  "I  did  not  know  it  was  my  place  to  apolo- 
gize to  you  for  having  very  nearly  upset  me." 

"Eh!  friend,  stop  that,"  sharply  replied  the 
sailor,  assuming  a  sneering  tone  of  voice  which  was 
somewhat  insulting. 

At  the  same  time,  the  count  lifted  his  whip  as  if 
to  whip  his  horse  and  touched  his  interlocutor's 
shoulder,  saying: 

"A  liberal  bourgeois  is  a  reasoner,  all  reasoners 
ought  to  be  sensible." 

The  young  man  climbed  down  the  bank  at  this  sar- 
casm; crossed  his  arms  and  answered  very  angrily: 

"Sir,  I  can  hardly  believe,  from  your  white 
hairs,  that  you  still  amuse  yourself  seeking  duels." 

"White  hair  ?"  cried  the  sailor,  interrupting  him, 
"you  lie  in  your  throat!  it  is  only  gray." 

A  quarrel  thus  begun,  grew  so  heated  in  a  few 
seconds,  that  the  young  adversary  forgot  the  moder- 
ate tone  he  had  forced  himself  to  maintain.  Just 
as  the  Comte  de  Kergarouet  saw  his  niece  coming 
up  with  all  the  signs  of  eager  anxiety,  he  was  giv- 
ing his  name  to  his  antagonist  bidding  him  keep 
silence  before  the  young  lady  entrusted  to  his  care. 
The  stranger  could  not  help  smiling  and  gave  the 
old  sailor  a  card,  pointing  out  that  he  lived  in  a 
country  house  at  Chevreuse,  and  rapidly  disap- 
peared after  having  indicated  it  to  him. 

"You  nearly  hurt  that  poor  fellow,  child,"  said 
the  count  hastening  to  meet  Emilie,  "you  no  longer 
know  how  to  hold  in  your  horse.  You  leave  me 
there  to  compromise  my  dignity  in  covering  your 


142  THE  DANCE  AT  SCEAUX 

follies;  whilst,  had  you  remained,  one  of  your 
looks  or  one  of  your  polite  words,  one  of  those  you 
say  so  prettily  when  you  are  not  impertinent,  would 
have  mended  all,  even  had  you  broken  his  arm." 

"Eh!  my  dear  uncle,  it  was  your  horse,  and  not 
mine,  which  caused  this  accident.  I  really  think 
that  you  must  not  ride  any  more,  you  are  not  as 
good  a  cavalier  as  you  were  last  year.  But  instead 
of  talking  nothings — " 

"The  deuce!  nothings!  Then  it  is  nothing  if  you 
are  impertinent  to  your  uncle!" 

"Ought  we  not  to  go  and  see  if  that  young  man 
is  hurt?     He  limps,  uncle,  do  look." 

"No,  he  runs.     Ah!  I  lectured  him  severely." 

"Ah!  uncle,  I  recognize  you  there." 

"Stop,  niece!"  said  the  count  stopping  Emilie's 
horse  by  the  bridle;  "I  do  not  see  the  necessity  of 
making  advances  to  some  shopkeeper  who  is  only 
too  lucky  in  being  thrown  down  by  a  charming 
young  girl  or  by  the  commander  of  La  Belle-Poule." 

"Why  do  you  think  he  is  a  common  man,  my 
dear  uncle.?  It  seems  to  me  that  he  has  very  refined 
manners." 

"Everyone  has  manners  now-a-days,  my  niece." 

"No,  uncle,  everyone  has  not  got  the  air  and  ap- 
pearance that  comes  from  frequenting  drawing- 
rooms,  and  I  will  willingly  lay  you  a  wager  that 
this  young  man  is  noble." 

"You  had  not  much  time  to  examine  him." 

"But  it  is  not  the  first  time  I  have  seen  him." 

"And  it  is  not  the  first  time  either,  that  you  have 


THE  DANCE  AT  SCEAUX  143 

looked  for  him,"  replied  the  admiral  laughing. 
Emilie  reddened;  her  uncle  amused  himself  by- 
leaving  her  some  time  in  confusion,  then  he  said  to 
her,  "Emilie,  you  know  that  I  love  you  as  if  you 
were  my  own  child,  just  because  you  are  the  only 
one  of  the  family  who  has  that  legitimate  pride  that 
good  birth  gives.  Deuce!  child,  who  would  have 
thought  that  good  principles  would  become  so  rare? 
Well,  I  want  to  be  your  confidant.  My  dear  little 
one,  I  see  that  you  are  not  indifferent  to  this  young 
gentleman.  Hush!  they  would  make  fun  of  us  in 
the  family  if  we  embarked  under  a  bad  flag.  You 
know  what  that  means.  So  let  me  help  you,  my 
niece.  Let  us  both  keep  the  secret,  and  I  promise 
to  bring  him  to  you  in  the  drawing-room." 

"And  when,  uncle.-'" 

"To-morrow." 

"But,  dear  uncle,  I  shall  not  be  bound  in  any 
way?" 

"Not  at  all,  and  you  may  bombard  him,  burn  and 
leave  him  like  an  old  carack  if  it  pleases  you.  He 
will  not  be  the  first,  eh?" 

"How  good  you  are,  uncle!" 

As  soon  as  the  count  got  in,  he  put  on  his  spec- 
tacles, secretly  drew  the  card  from  his  pocket  and 
read: 

Maximilien  Longueville,  Rue  du  Sentier. 

"Rest  in  peace,  my  dear  niece,"  he  said  to  Emi- 
lie, "you  may  harpoon  him  in  all  ease  of  con- 
science, he  belongs  to  one  of  our  historic  families; 


144  THE  DANCE  AT  SCEAUX 

and,  if  he  is  not  a  peer  of  France,  he  will  inev- 
itably become  one." 

"How  do  you  know  so  many  things?" 

"That  is  my  secret." 

"Then  you  know  his  name.?" 

The  count  silently  nodded  his  gray  head,  which 
was  rather  like  an  old  oak  trunk  with  a  few  leaves 
curled  up  by  the  autumn  cold  fluttering  round  it;  at 
this  sign,  his  niece  came  to  try  upon  him  the  un- 
failing power  of  her  coquetries.  An  adept  in  the 
art  of  cajoling  the  old  sailor,  she  lavished  upon  him 
the  most  infantile  caresses,  the  most  tender  words; 
she  even  went  so  far  as  to  kiss  him,  in  order  to  ob- 
tain the  revelation  of  so  important  a  secret.  The 
old  man,  who  passed  his  days  playing  at  such 
scenes  with  his  niece,  and  which  often  cost  him  the 
price  of  a  set  of  gems  or  his  box  at  the  Italiens,  was 
pleased  to  let  her  implore  him  and  particularly  to 
caress  him.  But,  as  he  spun  out  his  pleasure  too 
long,  Emilie  became  vexed,  passed  from  caresses  to 
sarcasms,  and  sulked,  then  returned,  overcome  by 
curiosity. 

The  diplomatic  sailor  exacted  a  solemn  promise 
from  his  niece  that  for  the  future  she  would  be  more 
modest,  more  gentle,  less  wilful,  less  extravagant, 
and,  above  all,  tell  him  everything.  The  treaty 
concluded  and  signed  by  a  kiss  which  he  laid  on 
Emilie's  white  forehead,  he  led  her  into  a  corner  of 
the  drawing-room,  sat  her  on  his  knee,  placed  his 
two  thumbs  over  the  card  so  as  to  hide  it,  letter 
by  letter  disclosed  the  name  of  Longueville,   and 


THE  DANCE  AT   SCEAUX  145 

obstinately  refused  to  let  her  see  more.  This  occur- 
rence only  intensified  Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine's 
secret  sentiment,  and  she  spent  the  greater  part  of 
the  night  unfolding  the  brightest  of  the  dreams  upon 
which  she  had  fed  her  hopes.  At  last,  thanks  to 
the  chance  so  often  prayed  for,  Emil  ie  nov/  saw  some- 
thing quite  different  from  idle  fancy  in  the  source 
of  the  imaginary  riches  with  which  she  gilded  her 
conjugal  life.  Like  all  young  people,  ignorant  of 
the  dangers  of  love  and  marriage,  she  was  madly 
fond  of  the  delusive  externals  of  marriage  and  love. 
Does  this  not  mean  that  her  sentiment  arose  like  al- 
most all  Youth's  fancies,  sweet  and  cruel  errors  that 
exercise  so  fatal  an  influence  over  the  lives  of  young 
girls  who  are  inexperienced  enough  to  trust  the  care 
of  their  future  happiness  to  themselves.?  The  next 
morning  before  Emilie  was  awake,  her  uncle  had 
hurried  to  Chevreuse.  Seeing  in  the  yard  of  an 
elegant  house  the  young  man  whom  he  had  pur- 
posely insulted  the  previous  day,  he  went  toward 
him  with  the  affectionate  politeness  of  the  elders  of 
the  old  Court. 

"Eh!  my  dear  sir,  who  would  have  thought  that 
I  should  quarrel  at  seventy-three  years  of  age,  with 
the  son  or  grandson  of  one  of  my  best  friends  ?  I 
am  a  vice-admiral,  sir.  From  that  you  will  gather 
that  I  think  as  little  of  a  duel  as  I  do  of  smoking  a 
cigar.  In  my  day,  two  young  people  could  not  be- 
come friends  until  they  had  seen  the  color  of  each 
other's  blood.  But,  ventre-de-biche !  yesterday  in 
capacity  of  sailor  I  had  too  much  rum  on  board  and 
10 


146  THE  DANCE  AT  SCEAUX 

I  foundered  on  you.  Shake  hands!  I  would  rather 
take  a  hundred  rebuffs  from  a  Longueville  than 
cause  the  least  pain  to  his  family." 

A  certain  coldness  that  the  young  man  tried  to 
show  the  Comte  de  Kergarouet  could  not  withstand 
the  frank  kindness  of  his  manners,  and  he  allowed 
him  to  squeeze  his  hand. 

"You  were  going  to  ride,"  said  the  count,  "do 
not  let  me  disturb  you.  But,  if  you  have  no  plans, 
come  with  me.  I  invite  you  to  dine  to-day  at  the 
Planat  house.  My  nephew,  the  Comte  de  Fontaine, 
is  a  man  you  ought  to  know.  Ah !  morbleu,  I  hope 
to  compensate  you  for  my  rudeness  by  presenting 
you  to  five  of  the  prettiest  women  in  Paris.  Eh! 
eh!  young  man,  your  brow  clears.  I  like  young 
men  and  I  like  to  see  them  happy.  Their  pleasure 
reminds  me  of  the  good  years  of  my  youth  when 
intrigues  were  no  more  lacking  than  duels.  How 
gay  those  times  were!  To-day,  one  reasons  and 
disquiets  one's  self  over  everything,  as  if  there 
never  had  been  any  fifteenth  or  sixteenth  century. " 

"But,  sir,  are  we  not  right?  The  sixteenth  cen- 
tury only  gave  religious  liberty  to  Europe,  and  the 
nineteenth  has  given  it  freedom  of  pol — " 

"Ah!  don't  let  us  talk  politics.  1  am  an  ultra  old 
fogy  you  see.  But  I  would  not  prevent  young  men 
from  being  revolutionaries  as  long  as  they  leave  the 
king  the  liberty  of  scattering  their  mobs." 

A  few  feet  from  there,  when  the  count  and  his 
young  companion  we»'e  in  the  middle  of  the  wood, 
the  sailor  saw  a  rather  slender  birch  tree,  stopped 


THE  DANCE  AT  SCEAUX  1 47 

his  horse,  took  one  of  his  pistols,  and  the  ball  lodged 
in  the  middle  of  the  tree  fifteen  feet  away. 

"You  see,  my  dear  fellow,  that  I  fear  no  duel," 
he  said  with  comical  gravity,  looking  at  Monsieur 
Longueville. 

"Neither  do  1,"  replied  the  latter,  who  promptly 
loaded  a  pistol,  aimed  at  the  hole  made  by  the 
count's  ball,  and  placed  his  own  close  to  the  mark. 

"There's  a  well  brought-up  young  man,"  cried 
the  sailor  with  a  kind  of  enthusiasm. 

During  the  walk  he  took  with  the  man  he  already 
looked  upon  as  his  nephew,  he  found  a  thousand 
opportunities  of  questioning  him  on  all  those  trifles 
of  which  a  perfect  knowledge  constituted,  according 
to  his  particular  code,  an  accomplished  gentleman. 

"Have  you  any  debts?"  he  finally  asked  his 
companion  after  many  questions. 

"No,  sir." 

"What!  you  pay  for  all  that  is  suppl  ied  to  you .?" 

"Exactly,  sir;  otherwise  we  should  lose  all  credit 
and  every  kind  of  respect." 

"But  at  least  you  have  more  than  one  mistress? 
Ah!  you  blush,  my  friend?  Morals  are  much 
changed.  With  these  ideas  of  legal  order,  Kantism 
and  liberty,  youth  is  spoiled.  You  have  neither 
Guimard  nor  Duthe,  nor  creditors,  and  you  don't 
know  heraldry;  but,  my  young  friend,  you  are  not 
educated!  Know  that  he  who  does  not  commit  his 
follies  in  springtime  commits  them  in  winter.  If  I 
have  eighty  thousand  francs  income  at  seventy- 
three,   it  is  because  I  ran   through  the  capital   at 


148  THE  DANCE  AT  SCEAUX 

thirty — oh !  with  my  wife,  of  course,  honorably, 
quite  honorably.  Nevertheless,  your  shortcomings 
will  not  prevent  me  from  introducing  you  to  the 
Planat  house.  Remember  that  you  promised  to 
come,  and  I  shall  expect  you." 

"What  an  extraordinary  little  old  man,"  said 
young  Longueville  to  himself;  "he  is  vigorous  and 
fresh;  but,  although  he  may  wish  to  appear  good- 
natured,  I  shall  not  trust  him." 


The  next  day,  toward  four  o'clock,  when  the 
company  was  scattered  in  the  drawing-rooms  and 
billiard-rooms,  a  servant  announced  to  the  inmates 
of  the  Planat  house:  Monsieur  de  Longueville.  At 
the  name  of  the  old  Comte  de  Kergarouet's  favorite, 
everyone,  down  to  the  player  who  was  going  to 
miss  a  ball,  came  hurrying,  as  much  to  watch  Ma- 
demoiselle de  Fontaine's  face,  as  to  judge  the 
human  phoenix  who  had  deserved  honorable  men- 
tion to  the  detriment  of  so  many  rivals.  A  simple, 
refined  dress,  manners  full  of  ease,  polite  ways,  a 
sweet  voice  of  a  tone  that  vibrated  the  heart's 
chords,  gained  Monsieur  Longueville  the  good  will 
of  all  the  family.  He  did  not  seem  strange  to  the 
luxury  of  the  pompous  receiver-general's  house. 
Although  his  conversation  was  that  of  a  man  of  the 
world,  everyone  could  easily  guess  that  he  had 
received  the  most  brilliant  education  and  that  his 
acquirements  were  as  solid  as  they  were  extensive. 
He  so  happily  hit  upon  the  right  word  in  a  rather 
trifling  discussion  raised  by  the  old  sailor  upon 
naval  constructions,  that  one  of  the  ladies  observed 
that  he  seemed  to  have  come  from  the  Ecole  Poly- 
technique. 

"I  think,  madame,"  he  replied,  "one  may  con- 
sider it  a  cause  for  pride  to  have  gone  into  it." 

In   spite   of   eager   entreaties,    he   politely,    but 

(149) 


I50  THE  DANCE  AT  SCEAUX 

firmly,  resisted  the  desire  they  expressed  to  keep 
him  to  dine,  and  fixed  the  attention  of  the  ladies 
by  saying  that  he  was  Hippocrate  to  a  young  sister 
whose  delicate  health  demanded  great  care. 

"Monsieur  is  no  doubt  a  doctor?"  ironically 
asked  one  of  Emilie's  sisters-in-law, 

"Monsieur  came  from  the  Ecole  Polytechnique," 
kindly  answered  Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine,  whose 
face  glowed  with  the  richest  color  directly  she 
learned  that  the  young  girl  at  the  dance  was  Mon- 
sieur de  Longueville's  sister. 

"But,  my  dear,  one  can  be  a  doctor  and  yet  have 
been  at  the  Ecole  Polytechnique;  is  that  not  so, 
monsieur?" 

"Madame,  there  is  nothing  against  it,"  replied 
the  young  man. 

All  eyes  turned  upon  Emilie,  who  was  looking  at 
the  fascinating  stranger  with  a  sort  of  anxious  curi- 
osity. She  breathed  more  freely  when  he  added, 
not  without  a  smile: 

"I  have  not  the  honor  of  being  a  doctor,  madame, 
and  1  have  even  given  up  entering  the  profession  of 
civil  engineering  in  order  to  keep  my  indepen- 
dence." 

"And  you  did  well,"  said  the  count,  "but  how 
can  you  look  upon  being  a  doctor  as  an  honor?" 
added  the  great  Breton.  "Ah!  my  youngfriend,  for 
a  man  like  you — " 

"Monsieur  le  Comte,  I  infinitely  respect  all  pro- 
fessions that  have  a  useful  end  in  view." 

"Eh!    then   we   are   agreed;    you   respect  those 


THE   DANCE  AT  SCEAUX  151 

professions  I  imagine,  as  a  young  man  respects  a 
matron." 

Monsieur  de  Longueville's  visit  was  neither  too 
long  nor  too  short.  He  left  the  moment  he  per- 
ceived he  had  pleased  everybody  and  that  every- 
one's curiosity  about  him  was  aroused. 

"He's  a  cunning  fellow,"  said  the  count,  coming 
back  to  the  drawing-room  after  seeing  him  out. 

Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine,  who  alone  was  in  the 
secret  of  this  visit,  had  dressed  herself  rather  ele- 
gantly so  as  to  attract  the  young  man's  notice;  but 
she  had  the  petty  mortification  of  seeing  that  he  did 
not  pay  her  as  much  attention  as  she  thought  she 
deserved.  The  family  were  rather  surprised  at 
the  silence  in  which  she  had  wrapt  herself.  For 
new-comers  Emilie  ordinarily  exerted  her  coquetry, 
her  witty  chatter,  and  the  inexhaustible  eloquence 
of  her  glance  and  attitudes.  Whether  the  sweet 
voice  and  attractive  manners  of  the  young  man  had 
charmed  her,  or  she  was  seriously  in  love  and  this 
feeling  had  wrought  a  change  in  her,  her  demeanor 
had  lost  all  affectation.  Simple  and  natural,  she 
must  doubtless  have  seemed  more  beautiful.  Sev- 
eral of  her  sisters  and  an  old  lady  friend  of  the 
family,  judged  this  behavior  a  refinement  of 
coquetry.  They  supposed  that,  thinking  the 
young  man  worthy  of  her,  Emilie  intended  showing 
her  gifts  but  by  degrees,  in  order  to  dazzle  him  all 
of  a  sudden  when  she  had  pleased  him.  All  the 
members  of  the  family  were  curious  to  know  what 
this  capricious  girl   thought  of   the  stranger;   but 


152  THE  DANCE  AT  SCEAUX 

when,  during  dinner,  each  one  delighted  in  endow- 
ing Monsieur  Longueville  with  some  new  quality, 
whilst  claiming  to  have  been  the  only  one  to  dis- 
cover it.  Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine  remained  silent 
for  some  time;  a  slight  sarcasm  from  her  uncle  sud- 
denly roused  her  from  her  apathy,  she  said  in  a 
rather  epigrammatical  way  that  this  divine  perfec- 
tion must  conceal  some  great  fault,  and  that  she 
should  be  very  careful  not  to  judge  so  clever  a  man 
at  first  sight 

"Those  who  please  everybody  please  nobody," 
she  added,  "and  the  worst  of  all  faults  is  to  have 
none." 

Like  all  young  girls  who  are  in  love,  Emilie  flat- 
tered herself  with  the  hope  of  hiding  her  feeling  in 
the  depths  of  her  heart  by  deceiving  the  Argus  eyes 
that  surrounded  her;  but,  at  the  end  of  a  fortnight, 
there  was  not  a  single  member  of  this  numerous 
family  but  was  initiated  into  this  little  domestic 
secret.  At  Monsieur  Longueville's  third  visit, 
Emilie  believed  she  had  something  to  do  with  it. 
This  discovery  caused  her  such  an  intoxicating 
pleasure,  that,  in  thinking  it  over,  she  was  aston- 
ished. In  that  there  was  something  painful  to  her 
pride.  Accustomed  to  forming  the  centre  of  society, 
she  was  obliged  to  acknowledge  a  force  that  drew 
her  out  of  herself;  she  tried  to  rebel,  but  she  could 
not  drive  the  young  man's  fascinating  image  from 
her  heart.  After  that  there  soon  arose  anxiety.  Two 
qualities  in  Monsieur  Longueville  very  unfavor- 
able to  the  general  curiosity,  were  an  unexpected 


THE  DANCE  AT  SCEAUX  153 

reserve  and  modesty.  The  artifices  dispersed  in 
Emilie's  conversation  and  the  traps  she  laid  for 
wringing  some  particulars  about  himself  from  the 
young  man,  he  knew  how  to  baffle  with  the  skill  of 
a  diplomatist  who  wishes  to  hide  secrets.  If  she 
spoke  of  painting,  Monsieur  Longueville  answered 
as  a  connoisseur.  If  she  played,  the  young  man 
proved  without  conceit  that  he  was  as  good  at  the 
piano.  One  evening  he  enchanted  all  the  company 
by  joining  his  delicious  voice  to  Emilie's  in  one  of 
Cimarosa's  most  beautiful  duets;  but,  when  they 
tried  to  enquire  if  he  were  an  artist,  he  put  them  off 
with  so  much  gracefulness,  that  he  did  not  leave 
these  women,  so  skilled  in  the  art  of  divining  sen- 
timents,  the  possibility  of  discovering  to  what 
social  sphere  he  belonged.  No  matter  with  what 
boldness  the  old  uncle  threw  the  grappling  irons  on 
to  this  vessel,  Longueville  nimbly  escaped  in  order 
to  maintain  the  charm  of  mystery;  and  he  was  able 
all  the  more  easily  to  remain  the  handsome  stranger 
at  the  Planat  house,  in  that  curiosity  did  not  over- 
step the  bounds  of  politeness.  Emilie,  tormented 
by  this  reserve,  hoped  to  gain  more  from  the  sister 
than  the  brother  in  this  kind  of  confidence.  Sec- 
onded by  her  uncle,  who  managed  this  manoeuvre 
as  well  as  he  would  that  of  a  ship,  she  tried  to  bring 
upon  the  scenes  the  hitherto  silent  character  of  Ma- 
demoiselle Clara  Longueville.  The  house  party 
soon  showed  the  greatest  desire  to  know  so  amiable 
a  person,  and  to  procure  her  some  amusement.  An 
informal   dance  was  proposed  and  accepted.     The 


154  THE   DANCE  AT  SCEAUX 

ladies  did  not  completely  despair  of  making  a  young 
girl  of  sixteen  talk. 

In  spite  of  these  little  clouds,  gathered  by  sus- 
picion and  raised  by  curiosity,  a  great  light  per- 
vaded Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine's  soul,  deliciously 
rejoicing  in  the  life  that  brought  her  nearer  another. 
She  was  beginning  to  understand  social  relations. 
Whether  happiness  makes  us  better,  or  whether  she 
was  too  much  absorbed  to  tease  others,  she  became 
less  caustic,  more  forbearing,  more  gentle.  The 
change  in  her  character  delighted  her  astonished 
family.  Perhaps,  after  all,  her  egotism  was  being 
transformed  into  love.  To  look  for  the  arrival  of 
her  timid  and  secret  adorer  was  an  intense  joy. 
Without  a  single  word  of  passion  having  been 
spoken,  she  knew  she  was  loved,  and  delighted  in 
skilfully  displaying  for  the  young  stranger  the 
treasures  of  an  education  that  showed  itself  to  be  so 
varied.  She  too  saw  that  she  was  being  carefully 
observed,  and  then  she  tried  to  conquer  the  faults 
that  her  bringing-up  had  encouraged.  Was  it  not  a 
first  tribute  to  love,  and  was  she  not  fiercely  re- 
proaching herself  ?  She  wanted  to  please  and  she 
fascinated;  she  loved  and  she  was  idolized.  Her 
family,  knowing  she  was  well  protected  by  her 
pride,  gave  her  sufficient  liberty  to  taste  those  little 
childish  pleasures  that  lend  so  much  charm  and 
force  to  a  first  love.  More  than  once,  the  young 
man  and  Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine  walked  alone  in 
the  alleys  of  this  park  where  nature  was  decked 
like  a  woman  for  a  dance.     More  than  once,  they 


THE   DANCE  AT  SCEAUX  1 55 

held  these  aimless,  featureless  conversations  in 
which  the  most  senseless  sentences  are  those  that 
hide  the  most  feeling.  Together  they  often  ad- 
mired the  setting  sun  and  its  rich  colors.  They 
gathered  marguerites  to  pick  them  to  pieces,  and 
sang  the  most  impassioned  duets  using  melodies 
from  Pergolese  or  Rossini,  like  faithful  interpreters, 
to  express  their  secrets. 

The  day  of  the  dance  arrived.  Clara  Longueville 
and  her  brother,  whom  the  servants  persisted  in 
dignifying  with  the  noble  particle,  were  the  heroes 
of  the  evening.  For  the  first  time  in  her  life.  Made- 
moiselle de  Fontaine  saw  a  young  girl's  triumph 
with  pleasure.  She  lavished  with  sincerity  on 
Clara  those  graceful  caresses  and  little  attentions 
that  women  only  ordinarily  exchange  to  excite  the 
jealousy  of  men.  Emilie  had  an  object,  she  wanted 
to  surprise  secrets.  But,  in  her  capacity  of  woman. 
Mademoiselle  Longueville  at  least  was  equal,  and 
showed  more  finesse  and  ingenuity  than  her  brother ; 
she  had  not  even  the  appearance  of  being  reserved 
and  knew  how  to  hold  conversation  on  subjects  un- 
connected with  material  interests,  whilst  putting 
into  it  so  much  charm,  that  Mademoiselle  de  Fon- 
taine conceived  a  sort  of  envy  of  her  and  surnamed 
her  the  Siren.  Although  Emilie  had  formed  the  in- 
tention of  making  Clara  talk,  it  was  Clara  who 
questioned  Emilie;  she  wanted  to  judge  her,  and 
was  judged  by  her;  she  was  often  vexed  at  having 
let  her  character  appear  in  several  answers  mis- 
chievously  extorted    from    her    by   Clara,    whose 


156  THE  DANCE  AT  SCEAUX 

modest,  candid  air  repudiated  all  suspicion  of  per- 
fidy. There  was  a  moment  when  Mademoiselle  de 
Fontaine  seemed  vexed  at  having  been  provoked  by 
Clara  into  an  imprudent  tirade  against  commoners. 

"Mademoiselle,"  this  charming  creature  said  to 
her,  "I  have  heard  Maximilien  speak  so  much  of 
you,  that  I  have  the  most  lively  desire  to  know  you 
out  of  affection  for  him ;  but  to  wish  to  know  you, 
is  it  not  to  wish  to  love  you?" 

"My  dear  Clara,  I  was  afraid  of  displeasing  you 
by  speaking  like  that  against  those  who  are  not 
noble." 

"Oh!  do  not  be  afraid.  Now-a-days,  these 
sorts  of  discussions  are  objectless.  As  for  me, 
they  do  not  affect  me;  I  am  outside  the  question." 

However  ambitious  this  answer  might  be,  it 
caused  Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine  to  feel  great  joy; 
for,  like  all  passionate  people,  she  construed  it  as 
oracles  are  read,  in  whatever  sense  it  agreed  with 
her  desires,  and  came  back  to  the  dance  more  joy- 
ous than  ever  in  looking  at  Longueville,  whose 
manners  and  elegance  perhaps  surpassed  those  of 
her  imaginary  type.  She  felt  all  the  more  satisfac- 
tion in  reflecting  that  he  was  noble,  her  black  eyes 
shone,  she  danced  with  all  the  pleasure  one  feels  in 
the  presence  of  the  person  one  loves.  The  two 
lovers  had  never  understood  each  other  better  than 
at  this  moment;  and  more  than  once  they  felt  the 
tips  of  their  fingers  thrill  and  tremble  when  the 
rules  of  the  quadrille  joined  them. 

This  handsome  couple  reached  the  beginning  of 


THE  DANCE  AT  SCEAUX  1 57 

autumn  in  the  midst  of  festivities  and  country 
pleasures,  gently  yielding  themselves  to  the  current 
of  the  sweetest  feeling  in  life,  whilst  strengthening 
it  by  all  the  thousand  little  incidents  that  can  be 
imagined;  love  is  always  alike  in  some  respects. 
Each  studied  the  other,  as  much  as  one  can  when  in 
love.  "In  short,  never  has  a  love  affair  turned  so 
rapidly  into  a  love  marriage,"  said  the  old  uncle, 
following  the  two  young  people  with  his  eyes,  as  a 
naturalist  examines  an  insect  under  the  microscope. 
This  word  frightened  Monsieur  and  Madame  de  Fon- 
taine. The  old  Vendean  ceased  to  be  as  altogether 
indifferent  to  his  daughter's  marriage  as  he  had  but 
lately  promised  to  be.  He  went  to  Paris  to  seek 
information,  but  found  none.  Alarmed  by  this 
mystery,  and  not  yet  knowing  what  would  be  the 
result  of  the  enquiry  about  the  Longueville  family 
that  he  had  begged  a  Parisian  administrator  to  under- 
take for  him,  he  thought  he  ought  to  advise  his 
daughter  to  behave  cautiously.  The  paternal  hint 
was  received  with  feigned  obedience  full  of  irony. 

"At  least,  my  dear  Emilie,  if  you  love  him,  do 
not  confess  it  to  him." 

"Father,  it  is  true  that  I  love  him;  but  I  shall 
wait  for  your  permission  before  I  tell  him  so." 

"And  yet,  Emilie,  reflect  that  as  yet  you  know 
nothing  cf  his  family  or  position." 

"And  if  I  do  know  nothing,  I  am  very  glad. 
But,  father,  you  wished  to  see  me  married,  you 
gave  me  liberty  to  make  my  choice,  and  it  is  irrev- 
ocably made;  what  more  do  you  want?" 


158  THE   DANCE  AT  SCEAUX 

"We  must  know,  dear  child,  if  the  man  you  have 
chosen  is  son  of  a  peer  of  France,"  ironically  re- 
plied the  venerable  gentleman. 

Emilie  was  silent  for  a  moment  Presently  she 
raised  her  head,  looked  at  her  father  and  said  with 
a  kind  of  anxiety: 

"Are  the  Longuevilles — ?" 

" — Extinct  in  the  person  of  the  old  Due  de  Ro- 
stein-Limbourg,  who  perished  on  the  scaffold  in 
1793.  He  was  the  last  offspring  of  the  last  younger 
branch." 

"But,  father,  there  are  some  very  good  families, 
issue  of  bastards.  French  history  swarms  with 
princes  who  put  bars  upon  their  shields." 

"Your  ideas  have  considerably  changed,"  said 
the  old  gentleman  smiling. 

The  next  day  was  the  last  that  the  Fontaine  fam- 
ily were  to  spend  at  the  house  of  the  Planats. 
Emilie,  much  disturbed  by  her  father's  advice, 
waited  with  eager  impatience  for  the  hour  at  which 
young  Longueville  was  in  the  habit  of  coming,  in 
order  to  obtain  an  explanation  from  him.  She  went 
out  after  dinner  to  walk  alone  in  the  park,  directing 
her  steps  toward  the  grove  where  they  exchanged 
confidences,  knowing  the  eager  young  man  would 
seek  her  there  and,  while  running,  she  reflected  on 
the  best  way  of  surprising  so  important  a  secret 
without  compromising  herself;  no  easy  thing  to  do! 
Up  to  the  present,  no  direct  avowal  had  sanctioned 
the  feeling  that  united  her  to  this  stranger.  She  had 
secretly  enjoyed,  like  Maximilien,  the  sweetness  of 


THE   DANCE  AT  SCEAUX  1 59 

a  first  love;    but,   each  as  proud  as  the  other,   it 
seemed  as  if  both  feared  to  confess  their  love. 

Maximilien  Longueville,  inspired  by  Clara  with 
sufficiently  well-founded  suspicions  of  Emilie's 
character,  found  himself  alternately  carried  away 
by  the  violence  of  a  young  man's  passion,  and 
restrained  by  a  wish  to  know  and  test  the  woman 
to  whom  he  was  to  entrust  his  happiness.  His  love 
did  not  prevent  him  from  recognizing  in  Emilie  the 
prejudices  which  spoiled  this  youthful  nature;  but 
he  wanted  to  know  whether  she  loved  him  before 
he  strove  against  them,  for  he  would  no  more  risk 
the  fate  of  his  love  than  he  would  his  life.  He  had, 
therefore,  constantly  adhered  to  a  silence  that  his 
look,  attitude  and  the  least  of  his  actions  belied. 
On  the  other  hand,  a  young  girl's  natural  pride, 
further  increased  in  Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine  by 
the  foolish  vanity  with  which  her  birth  and  beauty 
inspired  her,  prevented  her  from  anticipating  a 
declaration  that  her  growing  passion  sometimes 
inclined  her  to  solicit  So  the  two  lovers  had  in- 
stinctively grasped  their  situation  without  explain- 
ing their  secret  motives  to  each  other.  There  are 
moments  in  life  when  vagueness  pleases  young 
people.  From  the  very  fact  that  both  had  hesitated 
so  long  before  speaking,  they  both  seemed  to 
be  cruelly  sporting  with  their  expectation.  One 
sought  to  discover  whether  he  was  loved,  from  the 
effort  that  an  avowal  would  cost  the  pride  of  his 
haughty  mistress,  the  other  every  moment  hoped  to 
see  an  over-respectful  silence  broken. 


l60  THE   DANCE  AT  SCEAUX 

Seated  on  a  rustic  bench  Emilie  was  thinking 
over  the  events  that  had  just  happened  during  these 
three  delightful  months.  Her  father's  suspicions 
were  the  last  fears  that  could  touch  her,  she  even 
refuted  them  with  two  or  three  of  those  reflections 
that  to  a  young  and  inexperienced  girl  seemed 
triumphant  Above  all,  she  agreed  with  herself 
that  she  could  not  possibly  have  deceived  herself. 
During  the  whole  season,  she  had  never  remarked 
in  Maximilien  a  single  gesture  or  a  single  word 
that  might  indicate  a  common  origin  or  occupation; 
much  better,  his  manner  in  discussions  betrayed 
him  to  be  a  man  engaged  in  the  higher  interests  of 
the  country. 

"Besides,"  she  said  to  herself,  "a  member  of 
the  administration,  a  financier  or  a  merchant,  would 
never  have  had  leisure  to  remain  a  whole  season 
making  love  to  me  in  the  midst  of  the  fields  and 
woods,  spending  time  as  freely  as  a  nobleman  with 
a  whole  lifetime,  exempt  from  care,   before  him." 

She  was  giving  herelf  up  to  a  course  of  medita- 
tion far  more  interesting  to  her  than  these  prelimi- 
nary thoughts,  when  a  light  rustling  of  the  leaves 
told  her  that  for  the  last  minute  Maximilien  had 
been  gazing  at  her,  doubtless  with  admiration. 

"Do  you  know  that  it  is  very  wrong  to  surprise 
young  girls  in  this  way?"  she  said  to  him,  smiling. 

"Particularly  when  they  are  thinking  of  their 
secrets?"  answered  Maximilien  slyly. 

"Why  should  1  not  have  mine?  You  surely  have 
yours!" 


THE  DANCE  AT  SCEAUX  l6l 

"Then  you  were  really  thinking  of  your 
secrets?"  he  returned,  laughing. 

"No,  I  was  considering  yours.  Mine,  I  know 
them." 

"But,"  gently  exclaimed  the  young  man,  seizing 
Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine's  am  and  drawing  it 
within  his  own,  "perhaps  my  secrets  are  yours  and 
yours  are  mine." 

After  having  gone  several  steps,  they  found 
themselves  under  a  clump  of  trees  wrapt  in  the 
colors  of  the  setting  sun  as  if  in  a  red-brown  cloud. 
This  natural  magic  imparted  a  kind  of  solemnity  to 
the  moment.  The  young  man's  bold  and  eager 
action  and  above  all  the  fluttering  of  his  burning 
heart,  rapidly  pulsating  against  Emilie's  arm,  threw 
her  into  an  excitement  that  was  all  the  more  intense 
in  that  she  was  stirred  only  by  the  most  simple 
and  innocent  of  occurrences.  The  reserve  in  which 
young  girls  in  high  life  live,  gives  an  incredible 
force  to  the  outbursts  of  their  feelings,  and  is  one 
of  the  greatest  dangers  that  can  attack  them  when 
they  meet  with  an  impassioned  lover.  Never  had 
Emilie's  and  Maximilien's  eyes  said  so  many  of 
those  things  that  one  dare  not  speak.  Victims  of 
this  intoxication,  they  readily  forgot  the  little  stip- 
ulations of  pride  and  the  cold  considerations  of 
distrust.  At  first  they  could  not  even  express 
themselves  but  by  a  pressure  of  hands  which  served 
to  interpret  their  happy  thoughts. 

"Monsieur,  I  have  a  question  to  ask  you,"  said 
Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine  in  a  trembling,  anxious 
II 


1 62  THE   DANCE  AT  SCEAUX 

voice,  after  a  long  silence  and  after  having  walked 
a  few  steps  with  a  certain  slowness;  "but,  I  beg  of 
you  to  remember  that  it  is  in  some  degree  required 
of  me  by  the  rather  strange  position  in  which  I  find 
myself  placed  toward  my  family." 

A  pause,  terrifying  to  Emilie,  followed  these 
sentences,  which  she  had  almost  stammered  out. 

During  the  moment  that  this  silence  lasted,  this 
proud  young  girl  dared  not  encounter  the  piercing 
look  of  the  man  she  loved,  for  she  had  a  secret  con- 
sciousness of  the  meanness  of  the  following  words 
she  added : 

"Are  you  a  nobleman.?" 

When  she  had  uttered  these  last  words,  she 
wished  she  were  at  the  bottom  of  a  lake. 

"Mademoiselle,"  gravely  replied  Longueville, 
whose  changed  face  acquired  a  sort  of  severe  dig- 
nity, "I  promise  to  give  a  straightforward  answer  to 
this  demand  when  you  shall  have  answered  with 
sincerity  that  which  I  shall  make  of  you." 

He  dropped  the  arm  of  the  young  girl,  who  sud- 
denly felt  herself  alone  in  life,  and  said  to  her: 

"With  what  purpose  do  you  question  me  about 
my  birth?" 

She  remained  motionless,  cold  and  dumb. 

"Mademoiselle,"  continued  Maximilien,  "do  not 
let  us  go  any  further  if  we  do  not  understand  each 
other.   I  love  you, "  he  said  in  a  deep  and  tender  tone. 

"Well!"  he  added,  with  a  glad  look  at  hearing 
the  joyous  exclamation  that  the  young  girl  could 
not  restrain,  "why  ask  me  if  I  am  noble?" 


THE  DANCE  AT  SCEAUX  1 63 

"Would  he  speak  thus  if  he  were  not  so?"  cried 
an  inner  voice  that  Emilie  felt  springing  from  the 
bottom  of  her  heart. 

She  gracefully  lifted  her  head,  seemed  to  draw 
new  life  from  the  young  man's  eyes  and  held  out 
her  arm  to  him  as  if  to  conclude  a  fresh  alliance. 

"You  believed  I  had  my  heart  greatly  set  upon 
titles?"  she  asked  with  mischievous  archness. 

"I  have  no  title  to  offer  my  wife,"  he  answered, 
half  gay,  half  serious,  "but,  if  I  take  her  from  a 
high  rank  and  from  those  whom  the  paternal  fortune 
has  accustomed  to  luxury  and  the  pleasures  of 
wealth,  I  know  to  what  my  choice  binds  me.  Love 
gives  everything,"  he  added  gaily,  "but  only  to 
lovers.  As  to  married  people,  they  must  have  a 
little  more  than  the  sky's  canopy  and  the  meadow's 
carpet." 

"He  is  rich,"  she  thought,  "as  to  titles,  perhaps 
he  wishes  to  test  me!  Some  one  has  told  him  that 
I  am  partial  to  the  nobility,  and  that  I  will  marry 
none  but  a  peer  of  France.  My  humbugging  sisters 
must  have  played  me  this  trick. — I  assure  you,  mon- 
sieur," she  said  aloud,  "that  I  have  had  very  ex- 
aggerated ideas  of  life  and  society;  but,  to-day," 
she  continued,  intentionally  looking  at  him  in  such 
a  way  as  to  turn  him  crazy,  "I  know  where  lie  a 
woman's  true  riches." 

"I  am  anxious  to  believe  that  you  disguise  noth- 
ing," he  answered  with  gentle  gravity,  "but,  this 
winter,  my  dear  Emilie,  perhaps  in  less  than  two 
months,  I  shall  be  proud  of  what  I  may  be  able  to 


1 64  THE  DANCE  AT  SCEAUX 

offer  you,  if  you  care  for  the  gratifications  of 
wealth.  It  will  be  the  only  secret  that  I  shall  keep 
here,"  he  said  pointing  to  his  heart,  "for,  on  its 
success  depends  my  happiness,  I  dare  not  say  our — " 

"Oh!  say  it!  say  it!" 

It  was  in  the  midst  of  the  sweetest  converse  that 
they  slowly  returned  to  join  the  company  in  the 
drawing-room.  Never  had  Mademoiselle  de  Fon- 
taine found  her  lover  more  pleasing  or  more  clever; 
his  slender  figure,  his  winning  manners,  seemed  to 
her  still  more  charming  since  the  conversation 
which,  in  some  measure,  had  secured  her  the  pos- 
session of  a  heart  that  was  worthy  the  envy  of  all 
women.  They  sang  an  Italian  duet  with  so  much 
expression,  that  the  party  applauded  them  enthusi- 
astically. Their  good-bye  assumed  a  conventional 
tone  under  which  they  concealed  their  happiness. 

In  short,  to  the  young  girl  this  day  became  a 
chain  to  bind  her  still  more  closely  to  the  stranger's 
destiny.  The  force  and  dignity  he  had  just  dis- 
played in  the  scene  in  which  they  had  mutually 
revealed  their  feelings  had  perhaps  forced  from 
Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine  that  respect  without 
which  true  love  cannot  exist.  When  she  was  alone 
with  her  father  in  the  drawing-room,  the  venerable 
Vendean  approached  her,  took  her  hands  affection- 
ately, and  asked  her  if  she  had  obtained  any  light 
upon  Monsieur  Longueville's  family  and  fortune. 

"Yes,  dear  father,"  she  replied,  "I  am  happier 
than  1  could  ever  have  wished.  In  fact,  Monsieur 
Longueville  is  the  only  man  that  I  would  marry." 


THE  DANCE  AT  SCEAUX  165 

"That's  right,  Emilie,"  answered  the  count,  "I 
know  what  it  remains  for  me  to  do." 

"Do  you  know  of  any  obstacle?"  she  asked 
with  real  anxiety. 

"My  dear  child,  this  young  man  is  an  absolute 
stranger;  but,  as  long  as  he  is  not  a  dishonest  man, 
from  the  moment  you  love  him  he  is  as  dear  to  me 
as  a  son." 

"A  dishonest  man!"  replied  Emilie;  "I  am  quite 
easy.  My  uncle,  who  introduced  him  to  us,  can 
answer  for  him.  Say,  dear  uncle,  has  he  been  a 
filibuster,  pirate,  corsair?" 

"I  knew  that  I  was  going  to  be  dragged  into  it," 
cried  the  old  sailor,  waking  up.  He  looked  round 
the  salon,  but  his  niece  had  vanished  like  Saint 
Elmo's  fire,  to  use  her  favorite  expression. 

"Well,  uncle,"  resumed  Monsieur  de  Fontaine, 
"how  could  you  have  hidden  from  us  all  you  knew 
about  this  young  man  ?  Yet  you  must  have  re- 
marked our  anxiety.  Is  Monsieur  deLonguevilleof 
good  family?" 

"I  do  not  know  him  from  Adam  or  Eve,"  cried 
the  Comte  de  Kergarouet  "Trusting  to  the  tact  of 
this  little  elf,  I  brought  her  Saint-Preux  to  her  by  a 
way  known  to  myself.  I  know  that  this  boy  fires  a 
pistol  admirably,  hunts  very  well,  plays  billiards, 
chess  and  backgammon  marvelously;  he  fences 
and  rides  like  the  late  Chevalier  de  Saint-Georges. 
His  knowledge  is  comparatively  as  rich  as  our  vine- 
yards. He  calculates  like  Barreme,  draws,  dances, 
and  sings  well.     Eh!  deuce  take   it! — what  is  the 


166  THE  DANCE  AT  SCEAUX 

matter  with  you,  you  people?  If  that  does  not 
make  a  perfect  gentleman,  show  me  a  bourgeois  who 
knows  all  that,  find  me  a  man  who  lives  as  honor- 
ably as  he  does?  Does  he  work?  Does  he  com- 
promise his  dignity  by  going  into  offices,  to  bow 
down  to  parvenus  that  you  call  directors-general? 
He  walks  upright.  He  is  a  man.  But,  however,  I 
have  just  found  in  my  waistcoat  pocket  the  card  he 
gave  me  when  he  thought  I  wanted  to  cut  his  throat, 
poor  simpleton! — Now-a-days  young  people  are  not 
at  all  sharp. — Here  it  is." 

"Rue  du  Sentier,  No.  5,"  said  Monsieur  de  Fon- 
taine, trying  to  recall,  from  amongst  all  the  infor- 
mation he  had  obtained,  that  which  might  relate  to 
the  young  stranger.  "What  the  devil  does  this 
mean?  Messieurs  Pal  ma,  Werbrust  and  Company, 
whose  chief  trade  is  in  muslins,  calicoes  and  printed 
cottons,  wholesale,  live  there.  Good!  I  have  it! 
Longueville,  the  deputy,  has  an  interest  in  their 
house.  Yes,  but  I  only  know  Longueville  to  have 
a  son  of  thirty-two,  who  is  not  at  all  like  our  man, 
and  to  whom  he  is  giving  fifty  thousand  francs 
income  in  order  to  marry  him  to  a  minister's  daugh- 
ter; he  wants  to  be  made  a  peer  like  anybody  else. 
I  have  never  heard  him  speak  of  this  Maximilien. 
Has  he  a  daughter?  Who  is  this  Clara?  However, 
it  is  possible  for  more  than  one  intriguer  to  be 
called  Longueville.  But  is  not  the  house  of 
Palma,  Werbrust  and  Company  half  ruined  by  a 
speculation  in  Mexico  or  the  Indies?  1  will  clear 
this  all  up." 


THE   DANCE  AT   SCEAUX  1 67 

"You  talk  to  yourself  as  if  you  were  on  the  stage, 
and  you  seem  to  count  me  as  a  mere  cipher,"  sud- 
denly said  the  old  sailor.  "Do  you  not  know,  that 
if  he  is  a  gentleman,  I  have  more  than  one  bag  in 
my  hatchway  to  supply  his  want  of  fortune?" 

"As  to  that,  if  he  is  a  son  of  Longueville,  he 
needs  nothing;  but,"  said  Monsieur  de  Fontaine, 
shaking  his  head,  "his  father  did  not  even  purchase 
an  office  entitling  to  nobility.  Before  the  Revolu- 
tion, he  was  a  solicitor;  and  the  de  he  has  assumed 
since  the  Restoration  belongs  to  him  about  as  much 
as  half  his  wealth." 

"Bah!  bah!  lucky  for  those  whose  fathers  have 
been  hanged!"  gaily  cried  the  sailor. 

Two  or  three  days  after  this  memorable  day,  and 
on  one  of  those  beautiful  mornings  in  November 
that  show  the  Parisians  their  boulevards  cleaned  by 
the  sharp  cold  of  an  early  frost.  Mademoiselle  de 
Fontaine,  attired  in  a  new  fur  that  she  wanted  to 
bring  into  fashion,  went  out  with  the  two  sisters-in- 
law  upon  whom  she  had  formerly  vented  the  most 
epigrams.  The  inclination  to  try  a  very  elegant 
carriage  and  dresses  that  were  to  set  the  style  for 
winter  fashions,  tempted  these  three  women  to  a 
Parisian  drive  far  less  than  the  wish  to  see  a  cape 
that  one  of  their  friends  had  noticed  in  a  handsome 
linen  shop  at  the  corner  of  the  Rue  de  la  Paix. 
When  the  three  ladies  entered  the  shop,  Madame  la 
Baronne  de  Fontaine  pulled  Emilie  by  the  sleeve 
and  pointed  out  Maximilien  Longueville,  seated  at 
the  cashier's  desk  engaged,  with  mercantile  grace. 


168  THE  DANCE  AT  SCEAUX 

in  giving  change  for  a  gold  piece  to  the  needle- 
woman with  whom  he  seemed  to  be  debating. 

The  "handsome  stranger"  held  several  patterns  in 
his  hand  which  left  no  doubt  as  to  his  respectable 
profession.  Without  anyone's  observation,  Emi- 
lie  was  seized  with  an  icy  shiver.  Nevertheless, 
thanks  to  the  breeding  of  good  society,  she  com- 
pletely concealed  her  inward  rage,  and  answered 
her  sister,  "I  knew  it!"  with  a  depth  of  intonation 
and  such  an  inimitable  accent  as  the  most  famous 
actress  of  the  day  would  have  envied.  She  ad- 
vanced toward  the  desk. 

Longueville  raised  his  head,  put  the  patterns  in 
his  pocket  with  distracting  sang-froid,  bowed  to 
Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine  and  approached  her  with 
a  penetrating  look. 

"Mademoiselle,"  he  said  to  the  shopwoman,  who 
followed  him  with  a  very  anxious  air,  "I  will  send 
and  settle  this  account ;  my  establ  ishment  expects  it. 
But,  here,  '■'  he  added  in  a  whisper  to  the  young 
v/oman,  giving  her  a  thousand-franc  bill,  "take  it; 
it  shall  be  a  matter  between  us. — I  hope  you  will 
forgive  me,  mademoiselle,"  he  said  turning  to  Emi- 
lie,  "you  will  be  kind  enough  to  excuse  the  tyranny 
exercised  by  business." 

"But  it  seems  to  me,  monsieur,  that  it  is  of  ex- 
treme indifference  to  me,"  replied  Mademoiselle  de 
Fontaine,  looking  at  him  with  an  assurance  and  an 
air  of  scornful  carelessness  that  might  have  led  any- 
one to  believe  that  she  was  seeing  him  for  the  first 
time. 


IN  THE  RUE  DE  LA  PAIX 


When  the  tJiree  ladies  entered  the  shop,  Madame 
la  Baronne  de  Fontaine  pnllcd  Einilie  by  the  sleeve 
and  pointed  out  Maximilien  Longueville,  seated  at 
the  cashier  s  desk  engaged,  zvith  mercantile  grace, 
in  giving  change  for  a  gold  piece  to  the  needle- 
woman with  whom  he  seemed  to  be  debating. 

The  "handsome  stranger"  held  several  patterns 
in  his  liand. 


rit^y^-^XZi^  ■/iit/y.  '■&■   '.'Ji.  >•  .'-i-tn 


~"*»''««»>SfSSEi' 


-  L-  - 


THE   DANCE  AT  SCEAUX  1 69 

'•Are  you  speaking  seriously  ?"  asked  Maximilien 
in  a  broken  voice. 

Emilie  turned  her  back  upon  him  with  exquisite 
impertinence.  These  few  words,  spoken  in  a  low 
voice,  had  escaped  the  curiosity  of  the  two  sisters- 
in-law.  When,  after  taking  the  cape,  the  three 
ladies  had  regained  their  carriage,  Emilie,  who 
found  herself  sitting  in  front,  could  not  help  taking 
in  with  her  last  look  the  depth  of  this  odious  shop, 
where  she  saw  Maximilien  standing  with  his  arms 
crossed,  in  the  attitude  of  a  man  who  had  risen 
above  the  misfortune  which  had  attacked  him  so 
suddenly.  Their  eyes  met  and  darted  two  im- 
placable glances.  Each  hoped  that  the  other  loving 
heart  had  been  cruelly  wounded.  In  one  moment, 
they  found  themselves  as  far  from  one  another 
as  if  one  had  been  in  China  and  the  other  in  Green- 
land. Is  not  vanity  a  blast  that  withers  every- 
thing? A  prey  to  the  most  violent  struggle  that 
can  agitate  a  young  girl's  heart,  Mademoiselle  de 
Fontaine  reaped  the  fullest  harvest  of  sorrow  that 
ever  prejudice  and  narrowness  have  sown  in  a 
human  soul.  Her  face,  but  lately  so  fresh  and  vel- 
vety, was  streaked  with  yellow  tints,  red  stains, 
and  every  now  and  then  her  white  cheeks  would 
turn  suddenly  green.  In  the  hope  of  hiding  her 
trouble  from  her  sisters,  she  would  laughingly  point 
to  a  passer-by  or  a  ridiculous  toilette;  but  the  laugh 
was  convulsive.  She  felt  herself  more  keenly 
wounded  by  the  compassionate  silence  of  her  sisters 
than  by  any  epigrams  with  which  they  might  have 


I70  THE  DANCE  AT  SCEAUX 

avenged  themselves.  She  exerted  all  her  skill  to 
draw  them  into  a  conversation  in  which  she  tried 
to  give  vent  to  her  anger  by  senseless  paradoxes 
and  overwhelming  tradesmen  with  the  most  cutting 
insults  and  vulgar  epigrams.  Upon  her  return 
home  she  was  seized  with  a  fever  that  was  at  first 
of  a  somewhat  dangerous  nature.  At  the  end  of  a 
month  her  parents  and  the  doctor's  care  restored  her 
to  the  prayers  of  her  family.  Everyone  hoped  that 
this  lesson  would  be  sufficiently  severe  to  subdue 
Emilie,  who  gradually  resumed  her  old  habits  and 
rushed  anew  into  society. 

She  said  there  was  no  shame  in  being  deceived. 

"If,  like  her  father,  she  had  any  influence  in  the 
Chamber,"  she  said,  "she  would  promote  a  law  or- 
daining that  tradesmen,  especially  calico-merchants, 
should  be  marked  on  the  forehead  like  the  sheep  of 
Berri,  down  to  the  third  generation." 

She  would  have  given  to  nobles  alone  the  right 
to  wear  those  old  French  coats  that  were  so  becom- 
ing to  Louis  XV. 's  courtiers.  To  hear  her,  there 
might  have  been  some  misfortune  to  the  monarchy 
in  the  lack  of  any  visible  difference  between  a  mer- 
chant and  a  peer  of  France.  Thousands  of  other 
jests,  readily  understood,  rapidly  followed  each 
other  when  any  unforeseen  accident  set  her  off  on 
the  subject.  But  those  who  loved  Emilie  noticed  a 
tinge  of  melancholy  through  these  sneers.  Evidently, 
Maximilien  Longueville  always  reigned  in  the  bot- 
tom of  this  unaccountable  heart.  Now  and  then  she 
would  become  as  gentle  as  she  was  during  the  brief 


THE   DANCE  AT  SCEAUX  171 

season  that  saw  the  birth  of  her  love,  and  some- 
times she  would  be  more  unbearable  than  ever. 
Everyone  excused  the  caprices  of  a  temper  that 
sprang  from  a  sorrow  that  was  both  secret  and 
known.  The  Comte  de  Kergarouet  obtained  some 
little  influence  over  her,  thanks  to  an  excess  of  ex- 
travagance, a  species  of  consolation  that  rarely 
misses  its  effect  upon  young  Parisian  women.  The 
first  time  Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine  went  to  a  ball, 
was  at  the  house  of  the  Neapolitan  Ambassador. 
The  moment  she  took  her  place  in  the  most  bril- 
liant of  the  quadrilles,  she  saw  Longueville  a  few 
steps  from  her,  giving  a  slight  nod  of  the  head  to 
her  partner. 

"Is  that  young  man  one  of  your  friends.-"' 
she  asked  her  cavalier  with  a  scornful  air. 

"He  is  only  my  brother,"  he  replied. 

Emilie  could  not  suppress  a  start. 

"Ah!"  he  resumed  enthusiastically,  "there  is 
the  best  soul  in  the  world — " 

"Do  you  know  my  name?"  asked  Emilie  eagerly 
interrupting  him. 

"No,  mademoiselle.  It  is  a  crime,  I  confess,  not 
to  have  retained  a  name  that  is  on  all  lips,  I  ought 
to  say,  in  all  hearts;  but  I  have  good  excuse;  I  have 
just  come  from  Germany.  My  ambassador,  who  is 
in  Paris  on  his  holiday,  sent  me  here  to-night  as 
chaperon  to  his  amiable  wife,  whom  you  see  in  the 
corner  over  there." 

"A  truly  tragic  face,"  said  Emilie,  after  having 
scrutinized  the  ambassadress. 


172  THE  DANCE  AT  SCEAUX 

"And  yet  she  always  looks  like  that  at  a  ball," 
replied  the  young  man  laughing.  "I  must  make 
her  dance!     But  I  wanted  some  compensation." 

Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine  bowed. 

"1  was  much  astonished,"  continued  the  talkative 
secretary  of  the  Embassy,  "at  finding  my  brother 
here.  Upon  arriving  at  Vienna,  I  heard  the  poor 
boy  was  ill  in  bed.  I  had  counted  upon  seeing  him 
before  coming  to  the  ball;  but  politics  do  not 
always  allow  us  leisure  for  family  affection.  The 
padrofia  del/a  casa  did  not  permit  me  to  visit  my 
dear  Maximilien. " 

"Your  brother  is  not,  like  you,  in  diplomacy?" 
said  Emilie. 

"No,"  sighed  the  secretary,  "the  poor  boy  sacri- 
ficed himself  for  me!  He  and  my  sister  Clara  gave 
up  my  father's  fortune,  in  order  that  he  might  reunite 
the  entail  in  my  person.  My  father  dreams  of  the 
peerage  like  all  those  who  vote  for  the  ministry. 
He  has  a  promise  of  being  mentioned,"  he  added  in 
a  low  voice.  "After  having  amassed  some  capital, 
my  brother  then  joined  a  banking  establishment; 
and  I  know  he  has  just  made  a  speculation  in  Brazil 
that  may  make  him  a  millionaire.  You  see  me 
greatly  delighted  at  having  contributed  to  his  suc- 
cess by  my  diplomatic  relations.  I  am  even  now 
impatiently  awaiting  a  dispatch  from  the  Brazilian 
Legation  which  I  hope  will  cheer  him  up.  How  do 
you  think  he  looks?" 

"But  your  brother's  face  does  not  strike  me  as 
being  that  of  a  man  who  thinks  of  money." 


THE  DANCE  AT  SCEAUX  1 73 

With  a  single  glance  the  young  diplomat  scruti- 
nized the  outwardly  calm  face  of  his  partner. 

"What!"  he  said  smiling,  "do  young  ladies  then 
also  divine  the  thoughts  of  love  through  taciturn 
brows?" 

"Your  brother  is  in  love?"  she  asked,  allowing  a 
gesture  of  curiosity  to  escape  her. 

"Yes.  My  sister  Clara,  to  whom  he  shows  all  a 
mother's  care,  wrote  to  me  that  he  became  en- 
amored, this  summer,  of  a  most  beautiful  lady;  but 
since  then  I  have  had  no  news  of  his  love  affairs. 
Would  you  believe  that  the  poor  boy  used  to  get 
up  at  five  in  the  morning  to  go  and  dispatch  his  busi- 
ness so  as  to  be  able  to  be  at  the  country  house  of 
the  fair  one  by  four  o'clock  ?  So  he  ruined  a  charm- 
ing racer  that  I  had  sent  him.  Forgive  me  for 
chattering,  mademoiselle;  I  am  only  just  home 
from  Germany.  For  a  year  I  have  not  heard 
French  spoken  correctly,  I  have  been  deprived  of 
French  faces  and  satiated  with  Germans,  so  much 
so,  that  in  my  mad  patriotism,  I  believe  I  should 
speak  to  the  ghost  of  a  Parisian  lamp-post.  Then, 
if  I  chatter  with  more  unconstraint  than  quite  be- 
comes a  diplomat,  the  fault  lies  with  you,  made- 
moiselle. Were  you  not  the  one  to  point  out  my 
brother  ?  When  he  is  mentioned  I  am  inexhaust- 
ible. I  would  like  to  be  able  to  tell  the  whole 
world  how  good  and  generous  he  is.  It  was  a  ques- 
tion of  nothing  less  than  one  hundred  thousand 
francs  income  brought  in  by  the  Longueville  estate !" 

However  Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine  obtained  these 


174  THE  DANCE  AT  SCEAUX 

important  disclosures,  it  was  partly  owing  to  the 
skill  with  which  she  questioned  her  confiding  cav- 
alier, from  the  moment  she  learned  that  he  was  the 
brother  of  her  despised  lover. 

"Did  it  not  distress  you  to  see  your  brother 
selling  muslin  and  calico?"  asked  Emilie  after  they 
had  gone  through  the  third  figure  of  the  quadrille. 

"How  did  you  know  that?"  asked  the  diplomat. 
"Thank  heaven!  although  streams  of  words  es- 
cape me,  yet  I  have  learned  the  art  of  saying  only 
what  I  intend,  like  all  other  diplomatic  novices  that 
I  know." 

"You  told  me,  I  assure  you." 

Monsieur  de  Longueville  looked  at  Mademoiselle 
de  Fontaine  with  an  astonishment  full  of  sagacity. 
A  suspicion  entered  his  mind.  He  alternately  ex- 
amined his  brother's  eyes  and  those  of  his  partner, 
guessed  all,  clasped  his  hands  together,  raised  his 
eyes  to  the  ceiling,  began  to  laugh,  and  said: 

"I  am  an  idiot!  You  are  the  most  beautiful 
woman  at  the  ball,  my  brother  looks  at  you  stealth- 
ily, he  dances  in  spite  of  the  fever,  and  you  pre- 
tend not  to  see  him.  Make  him  happy,"  he  said  as 
he  led  her  back  to  her  old  uncle,  "I  shall  not  be 
jealous;  but  I  shall  always  tremble  a  little  when  1 
call  you  sister — " 

And  yet  the  two  lovers  were  to  be  as  inexorable 
one  as  the  other.  Towards  two  in  the  morning,  a 
collation  was  served  in  an  immense  gallery,  where, 
in  order  to  leave  persons  of  the  same  circle  free  to 
assemble,  the  tables  had  been  arranged  as  they  are 


THE  DANCE  AT  SCEAUX  175 

at  a  restaurant  By  one  of  those  accidents  that 
always  happen  to  lovers,  Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine 
found  herself  at  a  table  next  to  the  one  at  which 
the  most  distinguished  people  were  seated.  Maxi- 
milien  was  one  of  this  group.  Emilie,  listening 
attentively  to  her  neighbors'  talking,  was  able  to 
overhear  one  of  those  conversations  that  are  readily 
taken  up  between  young  women  and  young  men 
who  have  the  charm  and  appearance  of  Maximilien 
Longueville.  Speaking  to  the  young  banker  was  a 
Neapolitan  duchess,  whose  eyes  flashed,  and  whose 
snowy  skin  had  the  lustre  of  satin.  The  intimacy 
that  young  Longueville  pretended  to  share  with  her, 
wounded  Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine  all  the  more  as 
she  bore  her  lover  twenty  times  more  tenderness 
than  she  had  formerly  yielded  him. 

"Yes,  monsieur,  in  my  country,  true  love  knows 
how  to  make  all  kinds  of  sacrifice,"  said  the  duch- 
ess, simpering. 

"Then  you  are  more  impassioned  than  French 
womenare,"  said  Maximilien,  whose  burning  glance 
fell  upon  Emilie;  "they  are  all  vanity." 

"Monsieur,"  answered  the  young  girl  quickly, 
"is  it  not  a  shame  to  slander  one's  country?  De- 
votion exists  in  all  nations." 

"Do  you  believe,  mademoiselle,"  replied  the 
Italian  with  a  sardonic  smile,  "that  a  Parisian  is 
capable  of  following  her  lover  wherever  he  goes.-"' 

"Ah!  let  us  understand  each  other,  madame. 
One  goes  into  the  desert  to  live  in  a  tent,  but  one 
does  not  go  to  sit  in  a  shop." 


176  THE  DANCE  AT  SCEAUX 

She  ended  her  sentiment  with  a  scornful  gesture. 
Thus  twice  the  fatal  influence  of  her  education 
ruined  her  dawning  happiness,  and  caused  her  to 
miss  her  vocation.  Maximilien's  apparent  coldness 
and  a  woman's  smile  wrung  from  her  one  of  those 
sarcasms  whose  treacherous  gratifications  always 
tempted  her. 

"Mademoiselle,"  said  Longueville  in  a  low  voice, 
under  cover  of  the  noise  made  by  the  ladies  in  ris- 
ing from  table,  "no  one  will  wish  for  your  welfare 
more  ardently  than  I  shall ;  allow  me  to  assure  you 
of  this  in  bidding  you  good-bye.  In  two  or  three 
days  I  start  for  Italy." 

"With  a  duchess,  no  doubt?" 

"No,  mademoiselle,  but  with  a  mortal  malady 
perhaps." 

"Is  not  that  a  fancy?"  asked  Emilie  looking  at 
him  anxiously. 

"No,"  he  said,  "some  wounds  never  heal." 

"You  will  not  go!"  said  the  imperious  girl  smil- 
ing. 

"I  shall  go,"  gravely  replied  Maximilien. 

"You  will  find  me  married  on  your  return,  I  warn 
you,"  she  said  coquettishly. 

"I  hope  so." 

"Impertinent!"  she  cried,  "he  avenges  himself 
cruelly  enough!" 

A  fortnight  after,  Maximilien  Longueville  left 
with  his  sister  Clara  for  the  warm,  poetical  regions 
of  beautiful  Italy,  leaving  Mademoiselle  de  Fon- 
taine a  victim  to  the  fiercest  regrets.     The  young 


THE  DANCE  AT  SCEAUX  177 

secretary  of  the  embassy  took  up  his  brother's  cud- 
gels, and  brilliantly  avenged  Emilie's  scorn  by  pub- 
lishing the  reason  of  the  rupture  between  the  two 
lovers.  He  repaid  his  partner  with  interest  for 
the  sarcasms  she  had  formerly  flung  at  Maximilien, 
and  often  drew  a  smile  from  more  than  one  Excel- 
lency with  his  description  of  the  beautiful  enemy  of 
the  shop,  the  amazon  who  preached  a  crusade 
against  bankers,  the  young  girl  whose  love  had 
evaporated  before  half  a  piece  of  muslin. 

The  Comte  de  Fontaine  was  obliged  to  exert  his 
influence  to  procure  a  mission  in  Russia  for  Auguste 
Longueville,  so  as  to  free  his  daughter  from  the 
ridicule  which  this  young  and  dangerous  persecutor 
liberally  poured  upon  her.  Before  long,  the  minis- 
try, being  forced  to  raise  an  enlistment  of  peers  to 
strengthen  aristocratic  votes  that  were  wavering  in 
the  higher  Chamber  before  the  voice  of  a  famous 
writer,  nominated  Monsieur  Guiraiidin  de  Longue- 
ville peer  of  France  and  viscount  Monsieur  de 
Fontaine  also  obtained  a  peerage,  a  reward  which 
was  due  as  much  to  his  fidelity  in  bad  times  as  to 
his  name,  which  was  disrespectful  to  the  hereditary 
Chamber. 

About  this  time,  Emilie,  now  of  age,  doubtless 
made  some  serious  reflections  upon  life,  for  her  tone 
and  manner  perceptibly  changed;  instead  of  em- 
ploying herself  making  rude  remarks  to  her  uncle, 
she  would  bring  him  his  crutch  with  a  persevering 
tenderness  that  made  all  the  wags  laugh;  she 
offered  him  her  arm,  rode  in  his  carriage,  and 
12 


178  THE  DANCE  AT  SCEAUX 

accompanied  him  in  all  his  walks;  she  even  per- 
suaded him  that  she  loved  the  smell  of  a  pipe,  and 
would  read  him  his  beloved  qtwtidienne  in  the  midst 
of  puffs  of  tobacco  which  the  old  sailor  would  pur- 
posely send  at  her;  she  learned  piquet  in  order  to 
play  with  the  old  count ;  finally,  this  whimsical  young 
woman  would  listen  patiently  to  periodic  accounts 
of  the  engagement  of  La  Belle-Potde,  the  manoeuvers 
of  La  J/ille-de-Paris,  Monsieur  de  Suffren's  first  ex- 
pedition, or  the  Battle  of  Aboukir.  Although  the 
old  sailor  had  often  declared  he  knew  his  longitude 
and  latitude  too  well  ever  to  be  captured  by  a  young 
corvette,  one  fine  morning  all  fashionable  circles  in 
Paris  heard  of  the  marriage  of  Mademoiselle  de  Fon- 
taine and  the  Comte  de  Kergarouet.  The  young 
countess  gave  splendid  entertainments  to  divert  her 
mind;  but  she  doubtless  found  nothing  at  the  bottom 
of  this  vortex ;  splendor  but  imperfectly  hid  the  void 
and  misery  of  her  suffering  soul ;  most  of  the  time, 
in  spite  of  outbursts  of  artificial  gaiety,  her  beauti- 
ful face  told  of  a  secret  melancholy.  Nevertheless, 
Emilie  lavished  attentions  on  her  old  husband,  who 
would  often  say,  going  to  his  room  at  night  to  the 
joyous  strains  of  an  orchestra: 

"1  don't  know  myself  any  longer.  Had  I  to  wait 
until  I  was  seventy-three  to  embark  as  pilot  on  LA 
Belle-Emilie,  after  twenty  years  at  the  matrimo- 
nial galleys!" 

The  countess's  conduct  was  marked  by  such  se- 
verity, that  the  sharpest  critic  could  have  found 
nothing  to  fmd  fault  with.     Observers  thought  that 


THE  DANCE  AT  SCEAUX  1 79 

the  vice-admiral  liad  reserved  liis  right  to  dispose 
of  his  fortune  so  as  to  strengthen  his  hold  upon  his 
wife ;  a  supposition  which  was  most  unjust  both  to 
uncle  and  niece.  The  attitude  of  husband  and  wife 
was  so  cleverly  managed  that  young  men,  inter- 
ested in  discovering  the  secret  of  the  household, 
were  unable  to  fmd  out  whether  the  old  count 
treated  his  wife  as  husband  or  father.  He  was  often 
heard  to  say  that  he  had  picked  up  his  niece  as  a 
shipwrecked  person,  and  that,  in  the  old  days,  he 
had  never  taken  advantage  of  hospitality  when  he 
happened  to  save  an  enemy  from  the  fury  of  a 
storm.  Although  the  countess  aimed  at  reigning  in 
Paris  and  tried  to  be  on  a  par  with  the  Duchesses  de 
Maufrigneuse,  de  Chaulieu,  the  Marquises  d'Espard 
and  d'Aiglemont,  the  Comtesses  Feraud,  de  Mont- 
cornet,  de  Restaud,  Madame  de  Camps  and  Made- 
moiselle des  Touches,  she  would  not  yield  to  the 
love  of  the  young  Vicomte  de  Portenduere,  who 
idolized  her. 

Two  years  after  her  marriage,  in  one  of  those 
old-fashioned  circles  of  the  Faubourg  Saint-Germain 
where  they  admired  his  character  as  being  worthy  of 
olden  times,  Emilie  heard  Monsieur  le  Vicomte  de 
Longueville  announced;  and,  in  the  corner  of  the 
salon  where  she  was  playing  piquet  with  the  bishop 
of  Persepolis  no  one  could  see  her  agitation;  in 
turning  her  head,  she  had  seen  her  old  lover  entering 
in  all  the  glory  of  youth.  Through  the  death  of  his 
father  and  his  brother,  who  was  killed  by  the  rigorous 
climate   of   St.  Petersburg,   Maximilien  came  into 


180  THE  DANCE  AT  SCEAUX 

possession  of  the  hereditary  feathers  in  the  peerage 
cap;  his  fortune  equaled  his  acquirements  and  his 
merit;  even  the  day  before,  his  youthful,  burning 
eloquence  had  electrified  the  assembly.  At  this 
moment  he  appeared,  to  the  sorrowful  countess,  free 
and  adorned  with  all  the  advantages  she  had  for- 
merly desired  in  her  ideal  standard.  All  the 
mothers  with  marriageable  daughters  made  coquet- 
tish advances  to  a  young  man  endowed  with  all  the 
virtues  they  attributed  to  him  while  admiring  his 
grace;  but  Emilie  knew,  better  than  anyone  else, 
that  the  Vicomte  de  Longueville  possessed  a  firm- 
ness of  character  in  which  a  prudent  woman  fore- 
sees a  pledge  of  happiness.  She  looked  over  at  the 
admiral,  who,  to  use  his  familiar  expression,  seemed 
likely  to  stand  by  his  ship  for  a  long  time  to  come, 
and  cursed  the  errors  of  her  childhood. 

At  this  moment,  Monsieur  de  Persepolis  said  to 
her  with  episcopal  grace : 

"Fair  lady,  you  have  discarded  the  king  of  hearts, 
I  have  won.  But  do  not  regret  the  loss  of  your 
money,  I  will  keep  it  for  my  beloved  seminaries." 

Paris,  December,  1829. 


THE  PURSE 


(i8i) 


TO  SOFKA 

Have  you  never  noticed,  mademoiselle,  that,  in 
placing  two  adoring  figures  beside  a  beautiful  saint, 
no  painter  or  sculptor  of  the  Middle  Ages  has  ever 
failed  to  give  them  a  filial  resemblance?  When  you 
see  your  name  amongst  those  that  are  dear  to  me  and 
under  whose  patronage  I  place  my  works,  remember 
this  touching  harmony,  and  you  will  find  in  this 
less  of  homage  than  the  expression  of  brotherly 
affection  vowed  to  you  by 

Your  servant 

De  Balzac. 


(183) 


tty.»*««<C^i«(^ ■i»ss^'^.&. f  'jC 


THE  BARONNE  DE  ROUVILLE,  ADELAIDE 
AND  HIPPO LYTE 


So  he  sat  dow7i  at  the  card-table.  Adelaide 
wished  to  share  the  pai7iter's  lot,  asserting  that 
he  did  not  know  piquet  and  needed  a  partner. 
Madame  de  Roiiville  and  her  daiighter,  during 
the  game,  exchanged  signs  of  intelligence  which 
made  Hippolyte  all  the  more  nneasy  in  that  lie 
was  wijining ;  but,  in  the  end,  a  last  trick  placed 
the  two  lovers  in  the  baroness'  debt.  Intending  to 
look  in  his  pocket  for  money,  the  painter  drew  his 
hajids  from  beneath  the  table,  and  then  saw  be- 
fore him  a  purse  that  Adelaide  had  slipped  there. 


THE  PURSE 


For  souls  that  are  easily  gladdened  there  is  a 
delicious  hour  that  comes  ere  night  is  come,  and 
the  day  is  no  more;  the  twilight  glimmer  then 
spreads  its  soft  tints  or  strange  reflections  over  every 
object  and  encourages  a  reverie  that  vaguely  blends 
with  the  play  of  light  and  shade.  The  silence  that 
nearly  always  reigns  at  this  time  makes  it  espe- 
cially dear  to  artists  who  concentrate  their  thoughts, 
standing  a  few  feet  from  the  work  which  they  can 
no  longer  continue,  judging  it,  whilst  intoxicating 
themselves  over  a  subject  whose  inmost  meaning 
then  bursts  upon  the  inner  eyes  of  genius.  He  who 
has  never  stood  thoughtfully  beside  a  friend  during 
this  period  of  poetic  dreaming  will  hardly  under- 
stand the  indescribable  privileges.  The  rude  arti- 
fices employed  by  art  to  give  the  semblance  of 
reality,  completely  disappear  under  the  influence  of 
the  light  and  shade.  If  it  is  a  question  of  a  picture, 
the  people  that  it  represents  seem  both  to  speak  and 
walk;  shadow  grows  into  shadow,  the  day  is  day, 
flesh  is  living,  the  eyes  move,  the  blood  flows  in  the 
veins,  and  fabrics  glisten.  Imagination  lends  life 
to  every  detail  and  sees  nothing  but  the  beauties  of 
the  work.  At  this  hour,  illusion  reigns  supreme; 
perhaps  it  wakens  with  the  night!     Is  not  illusion 

(185) 


l86  THE  PURSE 

a  kind  of  night  to  the  soul,  which  we  furnish  with 
dreams?  It  is  then  that  illusion  spreads  her  wings, 
she  carries  the  mind  away  into  the  world  of  fancies, 
a  world  rich  in  voluptuous  caprices  in  which  the 
artist  forgets  the  real  world,  yesterday,  to-morrow, 
and  the  future,  everything,  even  his  miseries,  the 
good  as  well  as  the  bad.  In  this  magic  hour,  a 
young  and  talented  painter,  who  saw  in  art  nothing 
but  art  itself,  was  perched  upon  the  trestle  that  he 
used  for  painting  a  big,  high  picture  which  was 
almost  finished.  There,  criticizing  himself,  admir- 
ing himself  in  all  good  faith,  floating  on  the  current 
of  his  thoughts,  he  lost  himself  in  one  of  those  med- 
itations that  delight  and  enlarge  the  soul,  that 
caress  and  soothe  it.  His  reverie  doubtless  lasted 
a  long  time.  Night  fell.  Whether  he  wished  to 
descend  from  his  trestle  or  whether  he  made  a  care- 
less movement  believing  himself  near  the  floor, — he 
had  no  distinct  recollection  of  the  cause  of  his  acci- 
dent,— he  fell,  his  head  struck  a  piece  of  furniture, 
he  lost  consciousness  and  remained  motionless  during 
a  lapse  of  time  of  which  he  knew  nothing.  A  soft 
voice  roused  him  from  the  species  of  torpor  in  which 
he  was  sunk.  When  he  opened  his  eyes,  the  sight 
of  a  bright  light  caused  him  to  promptly  close  them 
again;  but,  through  the  mist  enwrapping  his  senses, 
he  heard  the  whispering  of  two  women,  and  felt  his 
head  resting  between  two  young  and  nervous  hands. 
He  soon  regained  consciousness,  and  could  see,  in 
the  light  of  one  of  those  old  lamps  with  a  double 
air  current,  the  most  delicious  head  of  a  young  girl 


THE  PURSE  187 

that  he  had  ever  seen,  one  of  those  heads  that  are 
often  looked  upon  as  a  caprice  of  the  brush,  but 
which  to  him  was  a  sudden  realization  of  those  the- 
ories of  an  ideal  beauty  that  every  artist  creates  for 
himself,  and  which  inspires  his  talent  The  face 
of  the  stranger  belonged,  so  to  speak,  to  the  fine 
and  delicate  type  of  Prudhon's  school,  and  also  pos- 
sessed the  poetry  imparted  by  Girodet  to  his  fanci- 
ful figures.  The  freshness  of  the  temples,  the 
regularity  of  the  eyebrows,  the  purity  of  line,  the 
virginity  so  deeply  imprinted  in  all  the  outlines  of 
this  physiognomy,  made  a  perfect  creation  of  the 
young  girl.  The  figure  was  supple  and  slender; 
the  make  frail.  Her  dress,  though  simple  and  neat, 
indicated  neither  prosperity  nor  poverty.  In  com- 
ing to  himself,  the  painter  expressed  his  admi- 
ration by  a  look  of  astonishment,  and  stammered 
some  confused  thanks.  He  found  his  forehead 
pressed  by  a  handkerchief,  and,  in  spite  of  the  odor 
peculiar  to  studios,  recognized  the  strong  smell  of 
ether,  doubtless  used  to  recover  him  from  his  swoon. 
Then  finally  he  saw  an  old  woman,  who  looked  like 
a  marquise  of  the  old  regime,  holding  the  lamp  and 
giving  instructions  to  the  young  stranger. 

"Monsieur,"  the  young  girl  replied  to  one  of  the 
questions  asked  by  the  painter  when  he  was  still 
in  the  state  of  uncertainty  produced  in  his  ideas 
by  the  fall,  "my  mother  and  I,  we  heard  the  noise 
of  your  body  on  the  floor,  and  thought  we  heard  a 
groan.  The  silence  that  followed  the  fall  frightened 
us,  and  we  hastened  up.     Finding  the  key  in  the 


1 88  THE  PURSE 

door,  we  fortunately  took  the  liberty  of  coming  in, 
and  we  saw  you  stretched  on  the  ground,  motion- 
less. My  mother  went  to  fetch  all  that  was  neces- 
sary to  make  a  compress  and  revive  you.  You  are 
hurt  on  the  forehead,  there,  do  you  feel  it?" 

"Yes,  now,"  he  said. 

*'0!  it  will  not  be  much,"  said  the  old  mother. 
"Happily,  your  head  struck  this  lay  figure." 

"I  feel  infinitely  better,"  answered  the  painter, 
"I  only  need  a  carriage  to  take  me  home.  The  por- 
ter will  go  and  fetch  one." 

He  wished  to  reiterate  his  thanks  to  the  two 
strangers;  but,  at  every  word,  the  old  lady  inter- 
rupted him  saying: 

"To-morrow,  monsieur,  be  very  careful  to  apply 
leeches,  or  have  yourself  bled,  drink  several  cups 
of  vulnerary;  take  care  of  yourself,  falls  are  dan- 
gerous." 

The  young  girl  stealthily  looked  at  the  artist  and 
the  pictures  in  the  studio.  Her  countenance  and 
look  were  perfectly  modest;  her  curiosity  suggested 
absent-mindedness,  and  her  eyes  seemed  to  express 
the  interest  that  women,  with  a  spontaneity  full  of 
grace,  show  in  all  our  misfortunes.  The  two 
strangers  seemed  to  forget  the  painter's  works  in  the 
presence  of  the  artist's  suffering.  When  he  had  reas- 
sured them  as  to  his  condition,  they  went  out,  exam- 
ining him  with  a  solicitude  that  was  equally  devoid 
of  significance  and  familiarity,  without  asking  in- 
discreet questions,  or  seeking  to  inspire  him  with  a 
wish  to  know  them.     Their  actions  were  marked 


THE  PURSE  189 

by  exquisite  simplicity  and  good  taste.  Their  re- 
fined and  simple  manners  at  first  made  little  impres- 
sion upon  the  artist;  but,  later,  when  he  thought 
over  all  the  circumstances  of  this  event,  he  was 
vividly  struck  by  them.  When  they  reached  the 
story  immediately  under  the  painter's  studio,  the 
old  woman  gently  cried: 

"Adelaide,  you  left  the  door  open." 

"It  was  to  help  me,"  answered  the  artist  with  a 
grateful  smile. 

"Mother,  you  came  down  just  now,"  replied  the 
young  girl  blushing. 

"Would  you  like  us  to  accompany  you  down- 
stairs.?" said  the  mother  to  the  artist,  "the  stair- 
case is  dark." 

"No, thank  you,  madame,  I  am  much  better." 

"Take  good  hold  of  the  banister." 

The  two  women  remained  upon  the  landing  to 
show  a  light  to  the  young  man  whilst  listening  to 
the  sound  of  his  footsteps. 

In  order  to  convey  all  that  this  scene  might  hold 
that  was  piquant  and  unforeseen  for  the  artist,  it  is 
necessary  to  add,  that  only  a  few  days  before  he 
had  established  his  studio  at  the  top  of  this  house, 
lying  in  the  most  obscure,  and  therefore  the  mud- 
diest, part  of  the  Rue  de  Suresnes,  almost  in  front 
of  the  church  of  the  Madeleine,  two  steps  from  his 
apartment,  which  was  in  the  Rue  des  Champs-Ely- 
sees.  The  fame  he  had  acquired  by  his  talent  had 
made  him  one  of  the  most  valued  artists  of  France, 
he  was  beginning  to  feel  no  further  want,  and  was 


rgo  THE  PURSE 

enjoying,  as  he  said,  the  last  of  his  poverty.  In- 
stead of  going  to  work  in  one  of  those  studios  situ- 
ated near  the  slums,  whose  moderate  rent  would 
have  been  formerly  in  proportion  with  his  modest 
gains,  he  had  gratified  a  wish  which  revived  every 
day,  in  saving  himself  a  long  journey  and  a  loss  of 
the  time  which  was  now  more  precious  to  him  than 
ever.  Nobody  in  the  world  could  have  inspired 
more  interest  than  Hippolyte  Schinner,  had  he  con- 
sented to  make  himself  known ;  but  he  did  not 
lightly  confide  the  secrets  of  his  life.  He  was  the 
idol  of  a  poor  mother,  who  had  educated  him  at  the 
cost  of  the  most  severe  privations.  Mademoiselle 
Schinner,  daughter  of  an  Alsatian  farmer,  had 
never  been  married.  Her  tender  soul  had  formerly 
been  cruelly  crushed  by  a  rich  man  who  did  not 
pride  himself  upon  any  great  scrupulousness  in  his 
love  affairs.  The  day  upon  which,  young  and  in  all 
the  splendor  of  beauty,  in  all  the  glory  of  her  life, 
she  suffered — at  the  expense  of  her  heart  and  her 
beautiful  illusions — that  disenchantment  which 
overtakes  so  slowly  and  so  rapidly, — for  we  wish 
to  believe  in  misfortune  as  late  as  possible  and  it 
always  seems  to  come  too  quickly, — that  day  was  a 
whole  age  of  reflections,  and  it  was  also  a  day  of 
religious  thoughts  and  resignation.  She  refused 
assistance  from  the  man  who  had  deceived  her,  for- 
sook the  world,  and  gloried  in  her  fault.  She  gave 
herself  up  entirely  to  her  maternal  love,  only  asking 
all  its  delights  in  return  for  the  social  pleasures  to 
which  she  had  bidden  farewell.     She  lived  by  her 


THE  PURSE  191 

needle-work,  hoarding  a  treasure  in  her  son.  And 
so,  later,  one  day,  one  hour,  repaid  her  the  long, 
slow  sacrifices  of  her  poverty.  At  the  last  exhibi- 
tion her  son  had  received  the  Cross  of  the  Legion  of 
Honor.  The  papers,  unanimously  in  favor  of  an 
unknown  talent,  still  resounded  with  sincere  praise. 
Artists  themselves  recognized  a  master  in  Schinner, 
and  dealers  covered  his  pictures  with  gold.  At 
twenty-five,  Hippolyte  Schinner,  to  whom  his 
mother  had  transmitted  her  womanly  feeling,  had, 
better  than  ever,  understood  his  position  in  the 
world.  Wishing  to  give  his  mother  the  pleasures 
of  which  society  had  so  long  deprived  her,  he  lived 
for  her,  hoping,  by  dint  of  fame  and  wealth,  to  see 
her  one  day  happy,  rich,  respected,  and  surrounded 
by  celebrated  men.  Schinner  had,  accordingly, 
chosen  his  friends  from  amongst  the  most  honorable, 
and  most  distinguished  men.  Fastidious  in  choos- 
ing his  acquaintance,  he  wanted  to  further  build  up 
his  position,  already  raised  so  high  by  his  talent. 
By  forcing  him  to  live  in  solitude,  work, — that 
mother  of  great  thoughts, — to  which  he  had  devoted 
himself  from  childhood,  had  left  him  the  beautiful 
faith  which  adorns  the  early  years  of  life.  His 
youthful  mind  forgot  none  of  the  many  refinements 
which  make  an  exceptional  being  of  a  young  man 
whose  heart  abounds  in  happiness,  poetry,  and  pure 
hope,  weak  in  the  eyes  of  blase  people,  but  great 
because  they  are  natural.  He  had  been  gifted  with 
the  gentle,  refined  manners  which  are  so  becoming 
to  a  person  and  fascinate  even  those  who  do  not 


192  THE  PURSE 

understand  them.  He  was  well  made.  His  voice, 
coming  from  the  heart,  moved  others  to  noble  feel- 
ings, and  indicated  a  genuine  modesty,  by  a  cer- 
tain ingenuousness  of  expression.  Seeing  him,  one 
felt  one's  self  drawn  toward  him  by  one  of  those 
moral  attractions  which  scientists  happily  do  not 
yet  know  how  to  analyze;  they  would  discover  in 
it  some  phenomena  of  galvanism  or  a  play  of  some 
fluid,  and  would  formulate  our  feelings  by  the  pro- 
portions of  oxygen  and  electricity.  These  details 
may  explain  to  bold  people  and  well-assured  men 
why,  during  the  absence  of  the  porter  whom  he  had 
sent  to  the  end  of  the  Rue  de  la  Madeleine  to  fetch 
a  carriage,  Hippolyte  Schinner  did  not  ask  the  por- 
ter's wife  any  questions  about  the  two  persons 
whose  goodness  of  heart  had  been  shown  him.  But 
although  he  answered  yes  and  no  to  the  inquiries, 
natural  enough  after  such  an  occurrence,  made  by 
this  woman  about  his  accident,  and  the  obliging  in- 
terference of  the  lodgers  occupying  the  fourth  floor, 
he  was  unable  to  prevent  her  obedience  to  the  in- 
stinct of  all  porters;  she  spoke  of  the  two  strangers 
according  to  the  interests  of  her  policy  and  follow- 
ing the  secret  opinions  of  the  lodge. 

"Ah!"  she  said,  "no  doubt  it  was  Mademoiselle 
Leseigneur  and  her  mother,  who  have  lived  here 
four  years.  We  do  not  yet  know  what  these  ladies 
do;  in  the  mornings,  only  until  midday,  an  old 
charwoman,  half-deaf,  and  who  is  as  dumb  as  a 
stonewall,  comes  to  work  for  them ;  in  the  evenings, 
two  or  three   old  gentlemen,  decorated   like   you, 


THE  PURSE  193 

monsieur,  one  of  whom  has  a  carriage,  servants  and 
who  is  said  to  have  sixty  thousand  francs  a  year, 
come  to  see  them  and  often  stay  very  late.  Other- 
wise they  are  very  quiet  lodgers,  like  you,  mon- 
sieur; and  then  it  is  economical,  living  on  nothing; 
as  soon  as  a  bill  comes  in,  they  pay  it.  It's  funny, 
monsieur,  the  mother  has  a  different  name  from  her 
daughter.  Ah!  when  they  go  to  the  Tuileries, 
mademoiselle  is  very  gorgeous,  and  never  goes  out 
but  that  she  is  followed  by  young  men  at  whom  she 
slams  the  door,  and  quite  rightly.  The  landlord 
will  be  no  sufferer — " 

The  carriage  had  arrived,  Hippolyte  listened  to 
no  more,  and  went  home.  His  mother,  to  whom  he 
related  his  adventure,  dressed  his  wound  again,  and 
would  not  allow  him  to  venture  the  next  day  to  his 
studio.  Advice  was  obtained,  various  prescriptions 
ordered,  and  Hippolyte  remained  at  home  three 
days.  During  this  confinement,  his  idle  imagina- 
tion recalled  to  him  vividly,  and  in  scraps  as  it 
were,  the  details  of  the  scene  which  followed  his 
swoon.  The  young  girl's  profile  stood  out  forcibly 
against  the  darkness  of  his  inward  vision;  he  could 
see  again  the  mother's  withered  face  or  feel  Ade- 
laide's hands;  he  would  again  meet  with  some  ges- 
ture which  had  struck  him  but  little  at  first,  but 
whose  exquisite  grace  was  brought  into  relief  by 
memory;  then  an  attitude  or  the  sound  of  a  melo- 
dious voice  beautiE^  by  the  distance  of  memory, 
would  suddenlj^^^ppear,  like  objects,  which, 
thrown  to  the  bottom  of  the  water,  return  to  the 
13 


194  THE  PURSE 

surface.  And  so,  the  day  on  which  he  was  abie  to 
resume  work,  he  returned  early  to  his  studio;  but 
the  visit  which  he  unquestionably  had  the  right  to 
pay  his  neighbors  was  the  true  cause  of  his  haste ; 
he  was  already  forgetting  the  pictures  he  had  com- 
menced. The  moment  passion  breaks  its  bonds,  it 
fmds  singular  pleasures  understood  by  those  who 
love.  Thus  some  persons  would  know  why  the 
artist  slowly  ascended  the  stairs  of  the  fourth  story, 
and  would  know  the  secret  of  the  throbs  succeeding 
each  other  so  rapidly  in  his  heart  the  moment  he 
saw  the  brown  door  of  the  modest  apartment  inhab- 
ited by  Mademoiselle  Leseigneur.  This  girl,  who 
did  not  bear  the  same  name  as  her  mother,  had 
awakened  a  thousand  sympathies  in  the  young 
painter;  he  was  pleased  to  think  that  there  might 
be  some  similarity  in  their  positions,  and  endowed 
her  with  all  the  misfortunes  of  his  own  origin. 
Whilst  working,  Hippolyte  yielded  himself  very 
complacently  to  thoughts  of  love,  and  made  a  great 
deal  of  noise  to  force  the  two  ladies  to  think  of  him 
as  much  as  he  concerned  himself  with  them.  He 
stayed  very  late  at  his  studio,  and  dined  there; 
then,  towards  seven  o'clock,  went  downstairs  to  his 
neighbors. 

No  painter  of  manners  and  customs  has  dared  to 
initiate  us,  perhaps  through  modesty,  into  the  really 
curious  interiors  of  certain  Parisian  existences,  into 
the  secret  of  those  dwellings  from  which  issue  such 
fresh  and  elegant  toilettes,  women  so  brilliant  that 
though  outwardly  rich,  they  still  betray  the  signs  of 


THE  PURSE  195 

a  doubtful  prosperity  in  their  surroundings  at  home. 
If  the  picture  is  here  too  boldly  drawn,  if  you  find  it 
tedious,  do  not  blame  the  description  which  is  con- 
nected, so  to  speak,  with  history ;  for  the  appear- 
ance of  the  apartment  occupied  by  his  two  neighbors 
greatly  influenced  Hippolyte  Schinner's  feelings 
and  hopes. 

The  house  belonged  to  one  of  those  proprietors  in 
whom  there  pre-exists  a  profound  horror  of  all  re- 
pairs and  improvements,  one  of  those  men  who  con- 
sider their  position  as  Parisian  landlords  in  the 
light  of  a  profession.  In  the  great  chain  of  moral 
species  these  men  are  something  between  a  miser 
and  a  usurer.  Optimists  from  calculation,  they 
are  all  faithful  to  the  statu  quo  of  Austria.  If  you 
talk  of  displacing  a  cupboard  or  a  door,  of  making 
the  most  necessary  ventilators,  their  eyes  flash, 
their  anger  is  excited,  they  shy  like  frightened 
horses.  When  the  wind  blows  two  or  three  tiles  off 
their  chimneys,  they  are  ill,  and  deprive  them- 
selves of  the  pleasures  of  going  to  the  Gymnase  or 
the  Porte-Saint-Martin,  on  account  of  the  repairs. 
Hippolyte,  who  had  had  gratis  the  representation  of 
a  comic  scene  with  the  Sieur  Molineux  in  connec- 
tion with  certain  improvements  to  be  made  in  his 
studio,  was  not  surprised  at  the  black  and  greasy 
colors,  the  oily  tints,  the  stains  and  other  suffi- 
ciently disagreeable  accessories  which  decorated  the 
woodwork.  Besides,  these  brands  of  poverty  are  not 
entirely  devoid  of  poetry  in  the  eyes  of  an  artist. 

Mademoiselle  Leseigneur  came  herself  to  open  the 


196  THE  PURSE 

door.  Recognizing  the  young  painter,  she  bowed; 
then,  at  the  same  time,  with  that  Parisian  dexterity 
and  presence  of  mind  inspired  by  pride,  she  turned 
to  shut  the  door  of  a  glazed  partition  through  which 
Hippolyte  might  have  been  able  to  see  some  linen 
stretched  on  the  line  above  the  economical  stove, 
an  old  cot-bed,  the  cinders,  the  coal,  the  flat-irons, 
the  filter,  the  crockery  and  all  the  utensils  peculiar 
to  small  households.  Fairly  clean  muslin  curtains 
carefully  hid  this  capharnaiim,  a  word  familiarly  used 
to  denote  this  species  of  laboratory,  here  badly 
lighted  by  the  borrowed  light  from  a  neighboring 
yard.  With  the  rapid  glance  of  an  artist,  Hippolyte 
took  in  the  appointment,  furniture,  the  ensemble  and 
condition  of  this  first  divided  room.  The  respecta- 
ble part,  which  was  used  both  as  antechamber  and 
dining-room,  was  hung  with  an  old  gold-colored 
paper,  with  a  velvet  border,  no  doubt  manufactured 
by  Reveillon,  and  the  holes  or  stains  of  which  had 
been  carefully  concealed  under  wafers.  Engravings 
representing  the  Battles  of  Alexander  by  Lebrun, 
but  with  worn  gilt  frames,  symmetrically  adorned 
the  walls.  In  the  middle  of  this  room  was  a  mas- 
sive mahogany  table,  old-fashioned  in  shape  and 
with  well-worn  boards.  A  little  stove,  whose 
straight  pipe  without  elbows  could  hardly  be  seen, 
was  in  front  of  the  fireplace,  the  hearth  of  which 
contained  a  cupboard.  In  strange  contrast,  the 
chairs  showed  some  remains  of  a  bygone  splendor, 
they  were  of  carved  mahogany ;  but  the  red  morocco 
seats,  the  gilded  nails  and  wire  threads  showed  as 


THE  PURSE  197 

many  scars  as  those  of  the  old  sergeants  of  the  Im- 
perial Guard.  This  room  was  used  as  a  museum 
for  certain  things  which  are  only  found  in  this  kind 
of  amphibious  households,  nondescript  objects  par- 
taking alike  of  luxury  and  poverty.  Amongst  other 
curiosities,  Hippolyte  noticed  a  richly  ornamented 
telescope,  hung  over  the  little  greenish  glass  which 
decorated  the  chimney-piece.  To  match  this 
strange  suite,  there  stood  between  the  fireplace  and 
the  partition  a  wretched  sideboard  painted  like  ma- 
hogany, of  all  woods  the  least  successful  in  imita- 
tion. But  the  red  and  slippery  floor-tiles,  the 
wretched  little  rugs  placed  in  front  of  the  chairs, 
the  furniture,  all  shone  with  that  polished  cleanli- 
ness which  lends  a  false  lustre  to  old  things  by  still 
further  accentuating  their  defects,  their  age  and  long 
service.  An  indefinable  odor  pervaded  the  room, 
resulting  from  the  exhalations  of  the  capharnaum 
mixed  with  the  fumes  of  the  dining-room  and  stair- 
case, although  the  window  was  half  open  and  the 
air  from  the  street  was  stirring  the  muslin  curtains, 
carefully  drawn  in  such  a  way  as  to  hide  the  re- 
cess where  the  previous  lodgers  had  left  the  signs 
of  their  presence  in  various  incrustations,  species  of 
domestic  frescoes.  Adelaide  promptly  opened  the 
door  of  the  other  room,  showing  in  the  artist  with  a 
certain  pleasure.  Hippolyte,  who  had  formerly  seen 
at  his  mother's  the  same  signs  of  want,  noted  them 
with  the  peculiarly  vivid  impression  which  charac- 
terizes memory's  first  acquisitions,  and  entered  into 
all  the  details  of  this  existence  better  than  any  one 


198  THE  PURSE 

else  could  have  done.  In  recognizing  the  things  of 
his  childish  life,  this  good  young  man  felt  neither 
contempt  for  this  hidden  misfortune,  nor  pride  in  the 
luxury  he  had  just  gained  for  his  mother. 

"Well,  monsieur,  I  hope  you  feel  no  further 
effects  of  your  fall  ?"  said  the  old  mother,  rising 
from  an  old-fashioned  easy  chair  standing  beside 
the  fireplace,  and  motioning  him  to  a  chair. 

"No,  madame.  I  have  come  to  thank  you  for  the 
kind  care  you  gave  me,  and  especially  mademoiselle 
who  heard  me  fall." 

Whilst  saying  these  words,  marked  by  the  de- 
lightful stupidity  that  the  first  agitations  of  true 
love  communicate  to  the  mind,  Hippolyte  was 
looking  at  the  young  girl.  Adelaide  was  lighting 
the  double-draughted  lamp,  no  doubt  to  eclipse  a 
candle  held  in  a  big  flat  candlestick  of  copper,  and 
decorated  with  several  projecting  channels  from 
excessive  melting.  She  bowed  slightly,  went  to 
put  the  candlestick  in  the  antechamber,  returned 
to  place  the  lamp  on  the  chimney-piece  and  seated 
herself  close  to  her  mother,  a  little  behind  the 
painter,  so  as  to  be  able  to  look  at  him  comfortably 
while  appearing  to  be  absorbed  in  the  progress  of 
the  lamp,  the  light  of  which,  chilled  by  the  damp- 
ness of  a  dim  chimney,  was  flickering  in  a  struggle 
with  a  black  and  badly  trimmed  wick.  Seeing  the 
big  glass  which  ornamented  the  mantelpiece,  Hip- 
polyte promptly  fixed  his  gaze  upon  it  so  as  to 
admire  Adelaide.  So  the  young  girl's  little  trick 
only  served  to  embarrass  them  both.   Whilst  chatting 


THE   PURSE  199 

with  Madame  Leseigneur,  for  Hippolyte  gave  her 
this  name  at  all  events,  he  examined  the  drawing- 
room,  but  decently  and  stealthily.  The  Egyptian 
faces  of  the  iron  fire-dogs  could  hardly  be  seen  on 
a  hearth  full  of  ashes,  where  two  fire-brands  were 
trying  to  meet  in  front  of  a  sham  terra  cotta  log,  as 
carefully  hidden  as  a  miser's  treasure  might  be. 
An  old  Aubusson  carpet,  well  mended,  thoroughly 
faded,  and  as  worn  as  an  old  pensioner's  coat,  failed 
to  cover  the  whole  floor,  the  cold  of  which  was  per- 
ceptible to  the  feet.  The  walls  were  adorned  with 
a  reddish  paper,  representing  a  figured  silk  stuff 
with  a  yellow  pattern.  In  the  middle  of  the  wall 
opposite  the  windows,  the  artist  saw  the  cracks  and 
slits  caused  in  the  paper  by  the  doors  of  an  alcove 
where  no  doubt  Madame  Leseigneur  slept,  and  very 
badly  concealed  behind  a  sofa.  Opposite  the 
chimney-piece,  over  a  mahogany  cupboard  contain- 
ing ornaments  lacking  neither  richness  nor  taste, 
was  the  portrait  of  a  military  man  of  high  rank, 
whom  the  painter  could  hardly  distinguish  for  want 
of  light;  but,  from  the  little  he  could  see  of  it,  he 
thought  that  this  terrible  daub  must  have  been 
painted  in  China.  In  the  windows,  the  red  silk 
curtains  were  as  faded  as  the  suite  of  this  general 
sitting-room  upholstered  in  yellow  and  red  tapestry. 
On  the  marble  top  of  the  cupboard,  a  valuable  mal- 
achite dish  held  a  dozen  coffee  cups,  beautifully 
painted,  and  doubtless  made  in  Sevres.  On  the 
chimney-piece  towered  the  eternal  clock  of  the  Em- 
pire, a  warrior  guiding  the  four  horses  of  a  chariot 


200  THE   PURSE 

whose  wheels  bear  on  every  spoke  the  number  of 
an  hour.  The  candles  in  the  candlesticks  were 
yellowed  by  the  smoke,  and,  at  each  corner  of  the 
mantelpiece,  was  a  porcelain  vase  wreathed  in  ar- 
tificial flowers  full  of  dust  and  garnished  with  moss. 
In  the  centre  of  the  room,  Hippolyte  noticed  a  card 
table  set  up  and  new  cards.  To  a  looker-on,  there 
was  indescribable  desolation  in  the  sight  of  this 
poverty,  rouged  like  an  old  woman  who  wants  to 
belie  her  face.  At  this  sight,  all  common  sense 
men  would  secretly  and  at  once  have  determined 
upon  this  kind  of  dilemma;  either  these  two  women 
are  honesty  itself,  or  they  live  by  intrigue  and  cards. 
But,  looking  at  Adelaide,  any  young  man  as  pure  as 
Schinner  must  have  believed  in  the  most  perfect 
innocence,  and  have  ascribed  the  most  honorable 
motives  to  the  inconsistencies  of  this  furniture. 

"Child,"  said  the  old  lady  to  the  younger,  "1 
feel  cold,  make  a  little  fire,  and  give  me  my  shawl." 

Adelaide  went  into  a  room  adjoining  the  drawing- 
room  where  no  doubt  she  slept,  and  returned  bring- 
ing her  mother  a  cashmere  shawl,  which  when  new 
must  have  been  worth  a  great  deal,  the  design  being 
Indian;  but,  old,  without  freshness  and  full  of  darns, 
it  harmonized  with  the  furniture.  Madame  Leseign- 
eur  wrapt  herself  up  in  it  very  artistically  and 
with  the  dexterity  of  an  old  woman  who  wants  to 
give  belief  in  the  truth  of  her  words.  The  young 
girl  quickly  ran  to  the  capharnaiim,  and  reappeared 
with  a  handful  of  small  wood  which  she  unhesitat- 
ingly threw  into  the  fire  to  relight  it. 


* 

It  would  be  rather  difficult  to  describe  the  con- 
versation which  took  place  between  these  three 
persons.  Guided  by  the  tact  which  misfortune 
experienced  from  childhood  nearly  always  teaches, 
Hippolyte  did  not  venture  the  slightest  remark  con- 
cerning the  position  of  his  neighbors,  seeing  around 
him  the  symptoms  of  such  badly  concealed  want.  The 
most  innocent  question  would  have  been  indiscreet, 
and  could  only  be  asked  in  a  long-standing  friend- 
ship. Nevertheless,  the  painter  was  deeply  troubled 
by  this  hidden  misery,  his  generous  soul  suffered; 
but,  knowing  that  any  kind  of  pity,  even  the  most 
friendly,  might  be  offensive,  he  felt  uncomfortable 
from  the  opposition  of  his  thoughts  and  words. 
The  two  ladies  at  first  talked  of  painting,  for  women 
easily  guess  the  secret  embarrassment  of  a  first 
visit;  perhaps  they  feel  it  too,  and  the  nature  of 
their  minds  furnishes  them  with  a  thousand  resources 
to  stop  it.  Whilst  questioning  the  young  man 
on  the  material  process  of  his  art,  on  his  studies, 
Adelaide  and  her  mother  knew  how  to  encourage 
him  to  talk.  The  indefinable  trifles  of  their  conver- 
sation prompted  by  kindness,  naturally  led  Hip- 
polyte to  make  remarks  or  reflections  which  showed 
the  nature  of  his  manners  and  mind.  Sorrow  had 
prematurely  withered  the  old  lady's  face,  doubtless 
beautiful  in  times  gone  by;  but  nothing  remained 

(201) 


202  THE   PURSE 

save  the  prominent  features,  the  outlines,  in  a 
word,  the  skeleton  of  a  physiognomy  whose  whole 
indicated  great  refinement,  much  charm  in  the  play 
of  the  eyes  where  one  met  the  expression  peculiar 
to  women  of  the  old  Court,  that  no  words  could 
define.  These  delicate,  fine  features  might  as  well 
denote  bad  sentiments,  imply  cunning  and  feminine 
subtlety  to  a  high  degree  of  perversity,  as  betray 
the  niceties  of  a  beautiful  mind.  In  fact,  a  woman's 
face  is  puzzling  to  ordinary  observers  for  this  reason, 
that  the  difference  between  candor  and  duplicity, 
between  the  spirit  of  intrigue  and  the  spirit  of  the 
heart,  is  imperceptible.  A  man  endowed  with 
penetrating  insight  recognizes  the  indiscernible 
shades  produced  by  a  line  more  or  less  curved,  a 
dimple  more  or  less  deepened,  a  projection  more  or 
less  arched  or  prominent.  Appreciation  of  these 
diagnostics  is  entirely  in  the  domain  of  intuition, 
which  alone  detects  what  everyone  is  interested  in 
hiding.  This  old  lady's  face  was  like  the  apart- 
ment she  occupied;  it  seemed  as  difficult  to  know 
whether  this  poverty  covered  vices  or  great  integ- 
rity, as  to  discover  whether  Adelaide's  mother  was 
an  old  coquette  accustomed  to  weighing,  calculating, 
trading  upon  everything,  or  a  loving  woman,  full  of 
nobleness  and  lovely  qualities.  But,  at  Schinner's 
age,  the  heart's  first  impulse  is  to  believe  in  good. 
And  so,  whilst  contemplating  Adelaide's  noble, 
almost  haughty,  forehead,  whilst  looking  at  her  eyes 
brimming  with  mind  and  feeling,  he  inhaled,  as  it 
were,  the  sweet  and  modest  fragrance  of  virtue.     In 


THE   PURSE  203 

the  middle  of  the  conversation,  he  took  the  opportu- 
nity of  speaking  of  portraits  in  general,  so  as  to  ob- 
tain the  chance  of  examining  the  terrible  pastel  the 
colors  of  which  had  faded  and  the  bloom,  for  the 
most  part,  rubbed  off. 

"You  are  doubtless  attached  to  this  painting  on 
account  of  the  likeness,  mesdames,  for  the  drawing 
is  shocking?"  said  he,  looking  at  Adelaide. 

"It  was  done  at  Calcutta,  in  a  great  hurry,"  an- 
swered the  mother  in  a  tone  of  emotion. 

She  gazed  at  the  crude  sketch  with  that  profound 
resignation  produced  by  the  recollections  of  happi- 
ness when  they  awaken  and  break  upon  the  heart, 
like  a  kindly  dew  to  whose  cool  influence  one  loves 
to  yield  one's  self;  but  there  was  also  in  the  ex- 
pression of  the  old  lady's  face  the  traces  of  an  eter- 
nal mourning.  At  least  so  the  painter  wished  to 
interpret  the  attitude  and  physiognomy  of  his  neigh- 
bor, by  whose  side  he  then  seated  himself. 

"Madame,"  he  said,  "but  a  little  more  time  and 
the  colors  of  this  pastel  will  have  disappeared. 
The  portrait  will  then  no  longer  exist  but  in  your 
memory.  Where  you  now  see  a  face  that  is  dear  to 
you,  others  will  no  longer  see  anything  at  all. 
Would  you  permit  me  to  transfer  this  likeness  to 
canvas  ?  It  would  be  more  solidly  fixed  than  it  is  on 
paper.  Grant  me,  for  the  sake  of  our  proximity,  the 
pleasure  of  rendering  you  this  service.  There  are 
hours  when  an  artist  loves  to  rest  himself  from  his 
great  compositions  by  doing  works  of  less  import- 
ance, so  it  would  amuse  me  to  repaint  this  head." 


204  THE   PURSE 

The  old  lady  started  at  hearing  these  words,  and 
Adelaide  gave  the  painter  one  of  those  concentrated 
glances  which  seem  to  be  a  ray  from  the  soul. 
Hippolyte  wanted  to  be  connected  with  his  neigh- 
bors by  some  bond,  and  acquire  the  right  to  mingle 
in  their  life.  His  offer,  whilst  appealing  to  the 
keenest  affections  of  the  heart,  was  the  only  one  he 
could  possibly  make;  it  satisfied  his  artist's  pride, 
and  could  not  offend  the  two  ladies  in  any  way. 
Madame  Leseigneur  accepted  without  eagerness  or 
reluctance,  but  with  the  consciousness  of  a  magnan- 
imous mind  which  understands  the  extent  of  the 
bonds  formed  by  such  obligations  and  which  speaks 
in  favor  of  them,  a  proof  of  esteem. 

"It  seems  to  me,"  said  the  painter,  "that  this  is 
the  uniform  of  an  officer  in  the  Marines?" 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "it  is  that  worn  by  captains  of 
vessels.  Monsieur  de  Rouville,  my  husband,  died 
at  Batavia  from  the  results  of  a  wound  received  in 
a  fight  with  an  English  vessel  that  he  met  off  the 
coast  of  Asia.  He  was  in  a  frigate  of  fifty-six  guns, 
and  the  Revenge  was  a  man-of-war  of  eighty-six. 
The  struggle  was  unequal ;  but  he  defended  himself 
so  bravely,  that  he  held  up  until  night  fell  and  he 
could  escape.  When  I  returned  to  France,  Bona- 
parte was  not  yet  in  power,  and  I  was  refused  a 
pension.  When,  lately,  1  again  petitioned  for  it, 
the  minister  told  me  harshly,  that,  had  the  Baron 
de  Rouville  emigrated,  1  should  have  retained  it; 
that  he  would  doubtless  have  been  rear-admiral  by 
now;  finally.  His  Excellency  concluded  by  pleading 


THE  PURSE  205 

a  law  unknown  to  him  upon  forfeiture.  I  should 
not  have  taken  this  proceeding,  to  which  I  was  urged 
by  my  friends,  but  for  my  poor  Adelaide.  I  have 
always  felt  reluctant  to  hold  out  my  hand  in  the 
name  of  a  sorrow  which  robs  a  woman  of  her  voice 
and  strength.  I  do  not  like  this  pecuniary  valua- 
tion of  blood  irreparably  shed — " 

"Mother,  talking  on  this  subject  always  does  you 
harm." 

At  Adelaide's  reminder  the  Baronne  Leseigneur 
de  Rouville  nodded  her  head  and  was  silent. 

"Monsieur,"  said  the  young  girl  to  Hippolyte,  "I 
thought  that  an  artist's  work  generally  made  very 
little  noise?" 

At  this  question,  Schinner  began  to  blush,  remem- 
bering the  racket  he  had  made.  Adelaide  did  not 
pursue  the  subject,  and  spared  him  an  untruth  by 
suddenly  rising  at  the  sound  of  a  carriage  stopping 
at  the  door;  she  went  into  her  room,  from  which 
she  immediately  returned  holding  two  gilded 
candlesticks  supplied  with  partly  burned  candles 
which  she  promptly  lighted;  and,  without  waiting 
for  the  tinkle  of  the  bell,  she  opened  the  door  of  the 
next  room,  where  she  left  the  lamp.  The  sound  of 
a  kiss  given  and  received  re-echoed  right  down  in 
Hippolyte's  heart.  The  impatience  the  young  man 
felt  to  see  the  person  who  treated  Adelaide  so 
familiarly  was  not  satisfied  at  once,  the  new-comers 
holding  what  seemed  to  him  a  very  long  conversa- 
tion with  the  young  girl,  in  low  tones.  At  last, 
Mademoiselle  de  Rouville  reappeared  followed  by 


206  THE   PURSE 

two  men  whose  costume,  physiognomy  and  appear- 
ance would  make  a  long  history.  The  first,  about 
sixty  years  old,  wore  one  of  those  coats  designed,  I 
believe,  for  Louis  XVlll.,  who  was  then  reigning, 
and  in  which  the  most  troublesome  jacket  problem 
was  solved  by  a  tailor  who  ought  to  be  immor- 
talized. This  artist  knew,  to  a  certainty  the  art 
of  transition  which  was  all  the  spirit  of  this  politi- 
cally unsettled  period.  Is  it  not  a  very  rare  merit 
to  be  able  to  judge  one's  epoch?  This  coat,  which 
young  men  of  to-day  may  take  as  a  myth,  was 
neither  civil  nor  military  and  might  pass  in  turn  for 
either.  Embroidered  fleurs-de-lys  adorned  the  fac- 
ing of  the  skirts  at  the  back.  The  gilt  buttons 
were  also  stamped  with  fleurs-de-Iys.  On  the 
shoulders,  two  expectant  spaces  called  for  the  un- 
necessary epaulettes.  These  two  warlike  signs 
were  there  like  a  petition  without  a  recommenda- 
tion. The  buttonhole  of  the  old  man's  coat  of  royal 
blue  cloth  was  decked  with  several  ribbons.  No 
doubt  he  always  held  his  three-cornered  hat 
trimmed  with  gold  cord,  in  his  hand,  for  the  snowy 
side-curls  of  his  powdered  hair  showed  no  traces  of 
the  hat's  pressure.  He  did  not  look  more  than  fifty 
years  old,  and  seemed  to  enjoy  robust  health. 
Whilst  betraying  the  loyal,  honest  character  of  the 
old  refugees,  his  face  also  denoted  licentious,  weak 
morals,  the  loose  passions  and  recklessness  of 
those  musketeers  who  were  formerly  renowned  for 
their  records  in  gallantry.  His  gestures,  bearing 
and   manners    showed    that    he   did    not   wish   to 


THE   PURSE  207 

reform  either  his  royaiism,  his  religion,  or  his  love 
affairs. 

A  truly  fantastic  figure  followed  this  pretentious 
"Louis  Xiy.  tumbler" — such  was  the  nickname 
given  by  the  Bonapartists  to  these  remaining  noble- 
men of  the  Monarchy; — but  to  thoroughly  portray 
him,  he  would  have  to  be  made  the  principal  figure 
in  the  picture  of  which  he  was  only  an  accessory. 
Imagine  a  dry,  thin  person,  clothed  like  the  first, 
but  only  as  it  were  the  reflection,  or  shadow  of  him, 
if  you  will.  The  coat,  new  on  one,  was  old  and 
faded  on  the  other.  The  powdered  hair  seemed  less 
white  in  the  second,  the  gold  of  the  fleur-de-lys  less 
brilliant,  the  spaces  for  the  epaulettes  more  discon- 
solate and  curled  up,  the  intelligence  weaker,  the 
life  further  on  the  road  to  the  fatal  goal  than  was 
the  first.  In  fact,  he  realized  that  saying  of  Riva- 
rol's  on  Champcenetz,  "It  is  my  moonshine."  He 
was  nothing  but  the  other's  double,  a  poor,  pale 
double,  for  there  was  the  same  difference  between 
them  as  exists  between  the  first  and  last  proofs  of  a 
lithograph.  This  silent  old  man  was  a  mystery  to 
the  painter  and  always  remained  a  mystery.  The 
chevalier — he  was  a  chevalier — did  not  speak,  and 
nobody  spoke  to  him.  Was  he  a  friend,  a  poor  re- 
lation, a  man  who  stayed  with  the  old  gallant  like 
a  companion  beside  an  old  woman.?  Did  he  occupy 
a  position  something  between  a  dog,  a  parrot,  and  a 
friend?  Had  he  preserved  the  fortune  or  only  the 
life  of  his  benefactor  ?  Was  he  the  Trim  to  another 
Captain  Toby?     Elsewhere,  as  at  the  Baronne  de 


208  THE  PURSE 

Rouville's,  he  always  excited  curiosity  without 
ever  gratifying  it.  Who  could,  under  the  Restora- 
tion, recall  the  attachment  that  before  the  Revolu- 
tion had  bound  this  chevalier  to  the  wife  of  his 
friend,  dead  twenty  years  ago  ? 

The  person  who  seemed  to  be  the  freshest  of 
these  two  wrecks  gallantly  advanced  toward  the 
Baronne  de  Rouville,  kissed  her  hand,  and  sat  down 
beside  her.  The  other  bowed  and  placed  himself 
close  to  his  model,  at  two  chairs'  distance.  Ade- 
laide came  and  leaned  her  elbows  on  the  back  of  the 
arm-chair  occupied  by  the  old  gentleman,  imitating 
unconsciously,  the  pose  that  Guerin  has  given  to 
Dido's  sister  in  his  celebrated  picture.  Although 
the  gentleman's  familiarity  was  fatherly,  just  now 
his  liberties  seemed  to  annoy  the  young  girl. 

"Well !  you  are  sulky?"  said  he. 

Then  he  gave  Schinner  one  of  those  oblique 
glances  full  of  cunning  and  craft,  diplomatic  looks 
whose  expression  betray  the  cautious  anxiety,  the 
polite  curiosity  of  well-bred  people,  which  seem  to 
ask  at  sight  of  a  stranger,  "Is  he  one  of  us?" 

"You  see  our  neighbor,"  said  the  old  lady  to  him, 
motioning  toward  Hippolyte;  "monsieur  is  a  cele- 
brated painter,  whose  name  you  must  know  in  spite 
of  your  indifference  to  art." 

The  gentleman  recognized  his  old  friend's  malice 
in  the  omission  of  the  name,  and  bowed  to  the 
young  man. 

"Certainly,"  he  said,  "I  heard  his  pictures  much 
talked   of    at  the   last   Salon.      Talent   has   great 


THE  PURSE  209 

privileges,  monsieur,"  he  added,  looking  at  the 
artist's  red  ribbon.  "This  distinction,  that  we 
have  to  purchase  at  the  cost  of  our  blood  and  pro- 
longed service,  you  gain  early;  but  all  glory  claims 
sisterhood,"  he  added,  putting  his  hand  on  his  Cross 
of  Saint-Louis. 

Hippolyte  stammered  a  few  words  of  thanks,  and 
resumed  his  silence,  contenting  himself  with  admir- 
ing with  increasing  admiration  the  beautiful  head 
of  the  young  girl  who  had  fascinated  him.  He  very 
soon  forgot  himself  in  this  contemplation,  thinking 
no  further  of  the  great  shabbiness  of  the  lodging. 
For  him,  Adelaide's  face  stood  out  alone  in  a  lumi- 
nous atmosphere.  He  briefly  answered  the  ques- 
tions put  to  him  and  which  he  fortunately  heard, 
thanks  to  a  singular  faculty  our  minds  possess  of 
being  able  in  some  measure  to  separate  our  thoughts 
occasionally.  Is  there  anyone  who  has  not  hap- 
pened to  be  sunk  in  a  voluptuous  or  sorrowful  medi- 
tation, listening  to  an  inner  voice,  and  yet  taking 
part  in  a  conversation  or  a  reading?  Wonderful 
dualism  which  often  helps  us  to  bear  with  tiresome 
people!  Genial  and  smiling,  hope  rained  thousands 
of  happy  thoughts  upon  him,  and  he  did  not  want  to 
watch  his  surroundings  any  longer. 

Being  a  sanguine  youth,  it  seemed  to  him  foolish 
to  analyze  a  pleasure.  After  a  certain  lapse  of  time, 
he  perceived  that  the  old  lady  and  her  daughter 
were  playing  cards  with  the  old  gentleman.  As  to 
the  latter's  satellite,  faithful  to  his  calling  as  a 
shadow,  he  stood  up  behind  his  friend  who  was 
14 


210  THE  PURSE 

absorbed  in  the  game,  answering  the  mute  questions 
put  to  him  by  the  player,  with  little  approving 
grimaces  which  reflected  the  interrogatory  move- 
ments of  the  other  physiognomy. 

"Du  Halga!  I  always  lose,"  the  old  gentleman 
was  saying. 

"You  discard  badly,"  answered  the  Baronne  de 
Rouville. 

"I  have  not  been  able  to  win  a  single  game  from 
you  for  three  months,"  he  replied. 

"Has  Monsieur  le  Comte  the  aces?"  asked  the 
old  lady. 

"Yes.     Still  another  one  doomed,"  he  said. 

"Would  you  like  me  to  advise  you?"  said 
Adelaide. 

"No,  no,  stay  over  there.  The  devil !  it  would 
be  too  much  to  lose  not  to  have  you  opposite 
me." 

At  last  the  game  ended.  The  gentleman  pulled 
out  his  purse,  and,  throwing  two  louis  on  the  cloth, 
not  without  temper,  he  said : 

"Forty -francs!  in  good  gold!  Eh!  deuce  take  it! 
it  is  eleven  o'clock!" 

"It  is  eleven  o'clock,"  repeated  the  mute  person, 
looking  at  the  artist. 

The  young  man,  hearing  these  words  a  little  more 
distinctly  than  all  the  others,  thought  that  it  was 
time  to  retire.  So  coming  back  to  the  world  of 
commonplace  he  found  some  commonplace  topic 
upon  which  to  begin  talking,  bowed  to  the  baroness, 
her  daughter,  the  two  strangers,  and  left,  victim  to 


THE  PURSE  211 

the  first  joys  of  true  love,  without  trying  to  analyze 
the  trifling  incidents  of  the  evening. 

The  next  day,  the  young  artist  felt  the  most  vio- 
lent longing  to  see  Adelaide  again.  Had  he  listened 
to  the  promptings  of  passion,  he  would  have  gone 
to  see  his  neighbors  at  six  o'clock  in  the  morning, 
on  arriving  at  his  studio.  But  he  still  had  sufficient 
sense  to  wait  until  the  afternoon.  But,  as  soon  as 
he  thought  he  could  call  upon  Madame  de  Rouville, 
he  went  down,  rang,  not  without  some  great  heart- 
beatings,  and,  blushing  like  a  young  girl,  timidly 
asked  Mademoiselle  Leseigneur,  who  had  opened 
the  door  to  him,  for  the  portrait  of  the  Baron  de 
Rouville. 

"But  come  in,"  said  Adelaide,  who  had  doubtless 
heard  him  coming  down  from  his  studio. 

The  painter  followed  her,  confused,  abashed,  not 
knowing  what  to  say,  happiness  had  made  him  so 
stupid.  To  see  Adelaide,  to  hear  the  rustling  of  her 
dress  after  having  longed  the  whole  morning  to  be 
near  her,  after  having  jumped  up  a  hundred  times 
saying,  "I  will  go  down!"  and  yet  not  going;  to 
him,  it  was  living  so  richly  that  such  sensations 
over-prolonged  wouid  have  destroyed  his  mind. 
The  heart  has  a  strange  power  of  setting  an  extra- 
ordinary value  on  trifles.  What  joy  it  is  to  a 
traveler  to  gather  a  blade  of  grass,  an  unknown 
leaf,  if  he  has  risked  his  life  in  the  search  for  it! 
The  trifles  of  love  are  like  this.  The  old  lady  was 
not  in  the  drawing-room.  When  the  young  girl 
found  herself  alone  with  the  painter,  she  brought  a 


212  THE   PURSE 

chair  to  reach  the  portrait;  but,  finding  that  she 
could  not  unhook  it  without  stepping  on  to  the  cup- 
board, she  turned  to  Hippolyte  and  said,  blushing: 
"I  am  not  tall  enough.  Will  you  get  it?" 
A  feeling  of  modesty,  revealed  in  her  expression 
and  the  tone  of  her  voice,  was  the  true  motive  for 
this  request;  and  the  young  man,  taking  it  in  this 
way,  gave  her  one  of  those  intelligent  looks  which 
are  love's  sweetest  language.  Seeing  that  the 
painter  understood  her,  Adelaide  lowered  her  eyes 
with  a  movement  of  pride  whose  secret  belongs  to 
virgins.  Not  finding  a  word  to  say,  and  almost  in- 
timidated, the  painter  then  took  the  picture,  gravely 
examined  it  in  the  daylight  near  the  window,  and 
went  off  without  saying  any  more  to  Mademoiselle 
Leseigneur  than : 

"I  will  bring  it  back  to  you  soon. "  Bothofthem, 
during  this  fleeting  moment,  experienced  one  of 
those  great  shocks  of  which  the  effects  on  the  mind 
may  be  compared  to  those  produced  by  the  throwing 
of  a  stone  into  the  depths  of  a  lake.  The  sweetest 
reflections  are  created,  and  succeed  each  other,  in- 
definable, complex,  aimless,  agitating  the  heart  like 
the  circular  ripples  which  ruffle  the  water  long  after 
starting  from  the  point  where  the  stone  has  fallen. 
Hippolyte  returned  to  his  studio  armed  with  the 
portrait  His  easel  was  also  provided  with  a  can- 
vas, a  palette  covered  with  colors;  the  brushes 
were  cleaned,  the  position  and  light  chosen.  So, 
until  the  dinner  hour,  he  worked  at  the  portrait 
with  that  ardor  that  artists  put  into  their  caprices. 


THE  PURSE  213 

He  called  again  the  same  evening  at  theBaronnede 
Rouville's,  and  stayed  from  nine  till  eleven.  Save 
for  different  subjects  of  conversation  this  evening 
was  almost  exactly  like  the  preceding  one.  The 
two  old  men  arrived  at  the  same  hour,  the  same 
game  of  piquet  took  place,  the  same  phrases  were 
uttered  by  the  players,  the  sum  lost  by  Adelaide's 
friend  was  as  large  as  it  had  been  the  evening  be- 
fore; only,  Hippolyte,  a  little  bolder,  ventured  to 
talk  to  the  young  girl. 


Eight  days  passed  in  this  way,  during  which  the 
feelings  of  the  painter  and  Adelaide  underwent 
those  delicious,  slow  transformations  that  lead  two 
souls  to  a  perfect  understanding.  Also,  day  by 
day,  the  look  with  which  Adelaide  received  her 
lover  grew  more  friendly,  more  confiding,  gayer  and 
franker ;  her  voice,  her  manners  were  somewhat 
more  eloquent  and  more  familiar.  Schinner  wished 
to  learn  piquet.  Ignorant  and  inexperienced,  he 
naturally  made  blunder  after  blunder;  and,  like  the 
old  man,  he  lost  nearly  every  game.  Without  hav- 
ing as  yet  confessed  their  love  to  each  other,  the 
two  lovers  knew  that  they  belonged  to  one  another. 
Both  would  laugh,  chatter,  tell  each  their  thoughts, 
talk  of  themselves  with  the  ingenuousness  of  two 
children,  who,  in  the  space  of  a  day,  become  as 
well  acquainted  as  if  they  had  known  each  other  for 
three  years.  Hippolyte  delighted  in  exercising  his 
power  over  his  timid  little  friend.  Many  conces- 
sions were  granted  him  by  Adelaide,  who,  anxious 
and  devoted,  was  deceived  by  those  pretended  sulks 
which  the  dullest  lover,  or  the  most  na'ive  young 
girl,  will  invent  and  employ  incessantly,  like  spoilt 
children  who  abuse  the  power  their  mother's  love 
yields  them.  In  this  way,  all  familiarities  between 
the  old  count  and  Adelaide  promptly  ceased.  The 
young  girl  had  instinctively  understood  the  painter's 

(215; 


2l6  THE   PURSE 

sadness  and  the  thoughts  hidden  beneath  his  frown- 
ing brow,  from  the  abrupt  tone  in  the  few  words 
he  said  when  the  old  man  unceremoniously  kissed 
Adelaide's  hands  or  neck.  On  her  side,  Made- 
moiselle Leseigneur  soon  demanded  from  her  lover 
a  strict  account  of  his  slightest  actions;  she  be- 
came so  unhappy  and  restless  when  Hippolyte  did 
not  come,  she  knew  so  well  how  to  scold  him  for 
his  absence,  that  the  artist  was  obliged  to  give 
up  seeing  his  friends,  and  frequenting  society. 
Adelaide  showed  a  woman's  natural  jealousy  at 
learning  that  sometimes,  upon  leaving  Madame  de 
Rouville's  at  eleven  o'clock,  the  artist  paid  more 
visits  and  went  into  the  most  brilliant  circles  in 
Paris.  According  to  her,  that  kind  of  life  was  bad 
for  the  health;  then,  with  the  deep  conviction  to 
which  the  accent,  gesture  and  look  of  a  loved  one 
give  so  much  weight,  she  asserted,  "that  a  man 
who  was  obliged  to  lavish  so  much  of  his  time  and 
charms  of  mind  on  several  women  at  once,  could 
never  be  the  subject  of  a  very  keen  affection."  So 
the  artist  was  led,  as  much  by  passion's  despotism 
as  by  a  young  and  loving  girl's  exactions,  to  live 
only  in  the  little  apartment  where  everything 
pleased  him.  In  short,  never  was  there  a  purer  or 
more  ardent  love.  On  both  sides,  the  same  faith, 
the  same  delicacy  increased  their  passion  without 
the  help  of  those  sacrifices  by  which  many  people 
seek  to  prove  their  love.  There  existed  between 
them  a  continual  exchange  of  such  sweet  sensations, 
that  they  did  not  know  which  of  the  two  gave  or 


THE  PURSE  217 

received  the  most  An  involuntary  inclination 
made  their  union  of  mind  always  closer.  The  prog- 
ress of  this  genuine  sentiment  was  so  rapid,  that,  two 
months  after  the  accident  to  which  the  artist  owed 
the  happiness  of  knowing  Adelaide,  their  life  had 
become  one  life. 

At  daybreak,  the  young  girl,  hearing  the  painter's 
step,  could  say  to  herself,  "He  is  there!"  When 
Hippolyte  returned  to  his  mother  at  dinner  time,  he 
never  missed  coming  to  greet  his  neighbors;  and, 
in  the  evening,  he  would  come,  at  the  usual  hour, 
with  all  a  lover's  punctuality.  The  most  tyranni- 
cal and  most  ambitious  woman  in  love,  could  not 
have  brought  the  slightest  reproach  against  the 
young  painter.  Hence  Adelaide  tasted  a  happi- 
ness without  alloy  and  limitless,  in  seeing  realized 
in  all  its  fullness  the  ideal  of  which  at  her  age,  it  is 
so  natural  to  dream.  The  old  gentleman  came  less 
often,  the  jealous  Hippolyte  had  replaced  him  in 
the  evenings,  at  the  gaming  table,  in  his  constant 
ill-luck  at  cards.  And  yet,  in  the  midst  of  his  hap- 
piness in  thinking  over  Madame  de  Rouville's  un- 
fortunate situation,  for  he  had  already  acquired 
more  than  one  proof  of  her  distress,  a  troublesome 
thought  struck  him.  Several  times  already  he  had 
said  to  himself  upon  reaching  home: 
"Why!  twenty  francs  every  night?" 
And  he  did  not  dare  to  admit  to  himself  any  in- 
vidious suspicions.  He  spent  two  months  over  the 
portrait  and  when  it  was  finished,  varnished  and 
framed,  he  considered  it  as  one  of  his  best  works. 


2l8  THE   PURSE 

Madame  la  Baronne  de  Rouville  had  not  mentioned 
it  to  him  again.  Was  it  indifference  or  pride?  The 
painter  would  not  account  to  himself  for  this  silence. 
He  gaily  plotted  with  Adelaide  to  put  the  portrait 
in  its  place  during  an  absence  of  Madame  de  Rou- 
ville. So  one  day,  during  the  walk  her  mother 
ordinarily  took  in  the  Tuileries,  Adelaide  went  up 
alone,  for  the  first  time,  to  Hippolyte's  studio,  under 
the  pretext  of  seeing  the  portrait  in  the  favorable 
light  in  which  it  had  been  painted.  She  remained 
silent  and  motionless,  victim  of  a  delightful  con- 
templation in  which  all  a  woman's  feelings  were 
merged  into  one.  Are  they  not  all  summed  up  in 
admiration  of  the  beloved  one?  When  the  painter, 
uneasy  at  this  silence,  leaned  forward  to  look  at  the 
young  girl,  she  stretched  out  her  hand  to  him,  un- 
able to  speak  a  word;  but  two  tears  had  fallen; 
Hippolyte  took  her  hand,  covered  it  with  kisses,  and, 
for  a  moment,  they  looked  at  each  other  in  silence, 
longing  to  confess  their  love,  and  not  daring  to. 
The  painter  kept  Adelaide's  hand  in  his,  the  same 
warmth  and  the  same  fluttering  told  them  that  their 
hearts  were  beating  in  unison.  Feeling  too  much 
agitated,  the  young  girl  gently  moved  from  Hippo- 
lyte, and  said,  glancing  at  him  with  a  look  full  of 
naivete : 

"You  will  make  my  mother  very  happy!" 

"What!     Your  mother  only?"  he  asked. 

"Oh!  me!     I  am  too  much  so. " 

The  artist  bent  his  head  and  was  silent,  fright- 
ened at  the  violence  of  the  feelings  roused  in  his 


THE   PURSE  219 

heart  by  the  tone  of  these  words.  Then,  both  un- 
derstanding the  danger  of  the  situation,  they  went 
down  and  put  the  portrait  in  its  place.  Hippolyte 
dined  for  the  first  time  with  the  baroness,  who,  in 
her  emotion  and  all  in  tears,  wanted  to  embrace  him. 
In  the  evening  the  old  refugee,  an  old  comrade  of 
the  Baron  de  Rouville,  paid  a  visit  to  his  two 
friends  to  tell  them  that  he  had  just  been  appointed 
vice-admiral.  His  navigations  on  land  through 
Germany  and  Russia  had  been  accounted  as  naval 
campaigns.  At  sight  of  the  portrait,  he  cordially 
pressed  the  artist's  hand  and  cried : 

"Faith!  although  my  old  carcass  is  not  worth  the 
trouble  of  preserving,  1  would  gladly  give  five  hun- 
dred pistoles  to  secure  such  a  good  likeness  as  that 
of  my  old  Rouville." 

At  this  offer,  the  baroness  looked  at  her  friend  and 
smiled  whilst  the  signs  of  a  sudden  gratitude  flashed 
across  her  face.  Hippolyte  thought  that  the  old 
admiral  wished  to  offer  him  the  price  of  the  two 
portraits  in  paying  for  his  own.  His  artist's  pride, 
quite  as  much  perhaps  as  his  jealousy,  took  offence 
at  this  idea,  and  he  answered : 

"Monsieur,  if  I  painted  portraits,  I  should  not 
have  done  this  one." 

The  admiral  bit  his  lip  and  began  to  play.  The 
painter  remained  beside  Adelaide,  who  proposed 
six  points  at  piquet;  he  accepted.  Whilst  playing, 
he  noticed  in  Madame  de  Rouville  a  passion  for  the 
game  that  surprised  him.  The  old  baroness  had 
never  yet  shown  so  ardent  a  desire  for  gain,  nor  so 


220  THE  PURSE 

keen  a  pleasure  in  fingering  the  gentleman's  gold. 
During  the  evening,  evil  suspicions  came  to  disturb 
Hippolyte's  happiness  and  caused  him  distrust. 
Did  Madame  de  Rouville  then  live  only  by  gam- 
bling? Was  she  not  playing  at  this  moment  to  dis- 
charge some  debt,  or  pressed  by  some  necessity? 
Perhaps  she  had  not  paid  her  rent.  This  old  man 
seemed  to  be  too  shrewd  to  let  his  money  be  taken 
with  impunity. 

Some  interest  must  attract  him,  a  rich  man,  to 
this  shabby  house !  Why,  formerly  so  familiar  with 
Adelaide,  had  he  given  up  liberties  acquired  and 
owing  perhaps?  These  reflections,  which  came  to 
him  involuntarily,  incited  him  to  examine  the  old 
man  and  the  baroness,  whose  expressions  of  intelli- 
gence and  certain  oblique  looks  at  himself  and  Ade- 
laide annoyed  him.  "Could  they  be  cheating  me?" 
was  Hippolyte's  final  thought,  horrible  and  dis- 
graceful, and  in  which  he  believed  just  enough  to 
be  tortured  by  it  He  wanted  to  remain  after  the 
departure  of  the  two  old  men  to  either  confirm  or 
dispel  his  suspicions.  He  drew  out  his  purse  to 
pay  Adelaide;  but,  carried  away  by  his  stinging 
thoughts,  he  put  it  on  the  table,  and  fell  into  a 
reverie  that  lasted  but  a  short  time;  then,  ashamed 
of  his  silence,  he  rose,  replied  to  some  common- 
place remark  of  Madame  de  Rouville,  and  ap- 
proached her,  whilst  talking,  to  better  scrutinize 
her  old  face.  He  went  out  a  prey  to  a  thousand 
doubts.  After  having  gone  down  several  steps,  he 
went  back  to  fetch  his  forgotten  purse. 


THE  PURSE  221 

"I  left  you  my  purse,"  he  said  to  the  young  girl. 

"No,"  she  answered,  reddening. 

"I  thought  it  was  there,"  he  replied,  pointing  to 
the  card-table. 

Ashamed  for  Adelaide  and  the  baroness'  sake  at 
not  seeing  it  there,  he  looked  at  them  with  a  stupe- 
faction that  made  them  laugh,  grew  pale,  continued, 
whilst  feeling  his  waistcoat: 

"I  must  have  made  a  mistake,  no  doubt  I  have 
it." 

In  one  of  the  sides  of  the  purse  there  were  fifteen 
louis,  in  the  other  some  small  change.  The  theft 
was  so  flagrant,  and  so  boldly  denied,  that  Hippo- 
lyte  had  no  further  doubts  about  the  morality  of  his 
neighbors;  he  stopped  on  the  staircase,  and  walked 
down  with  difficulty ;  his  legs  shook,  his  head  swam, 
he  was  sweating  and  shivering,  and  found  he  could 
hardly  walk,  struggling  with  the  cruel  shock  caused 
by  the  destruction  of  all  his  hopes.  From  this 
moment,  he  searched  his  memory  for  a  host  of  appar- 
ently slight  evidences,  but  which  corroborated  his 
terrible  suspicions,  and  which,  whilst  proving  the 
reality  of  this  last  fact,  opened  his  eyes  to  the  char- 
acter and  life  of  these  two  women. 

Had  they  then  waited  until  the  portrait  was  given 
to  steal  the  purse  ?  Combined,  the  theft  seemed  all 
the  more  hateful.  The  painter  remembered,  to  his 
misfortune,  that,  on  two  or  three  evenings  Adelaide, 
whilst  appearing  with  a  young  girl's  curiosity,  to  be 
examining  the  particular  process  of  the  worn  silk 
network,  was  probably  ascertaining  the  amount  of 


222  THE   PURSE 

money  in  the  purse,  all  in  making  apparently  inno- 
cent jokes,  but  doubtless  with  the  object  of  watch- 
ing for  the  moment  wlien  the  sum  should  be  large 
enough  to  steal. 

"Perhaps  the  old  admiral  has  the  most  excellent 
reasons  for  not  marrying  Adelaide,  and  so  the 
baroness  may  have  tried  to — " 

At  this  supposition,  he  stopped,  not  even  com- 
pleting his  thought,  which  was  neutralized  by  a 
very  sensible  reflection : 

"If  the  baroness,"  thought  he,  "hopes  to  marry 
me  to  her  daughter,  they  would  not  have  robbed 
me." 

Then  he  tried,  so  as  not  to  destroy  all  his  illu- 
sions, and  his  love  which  was  already  so  deeply 
rooted,  to  find  some  vindication  of  the  accident. 

"My  purse  must  have  fallen  on  the  floor,"  he  said 
to  himself,  "it  may  be  in  my  arm-chair.  Perhaps 
I  have  it;  I  am  so  absent!" 

He  searched  himself  rapidly,  but  did  not  find  the 
accursed  purse.  Every  few  moments  his  cruel 
memory  recalled  the  fatal  truth  to  him.  He  could 
distinctly  see  his  purse  laid  upon  the  cloth;  but, 
having  no  further  doubt  about  the  theft,  he  then 
excused  Adelaide,  saying  to  himself  that  one 
should  not  judge  unfortunates  so  hastily.  No  doubt 
there  was  some  mystery  in  this  outwardly  degrad- 
ing action.  He  would  not  allow  that  this  proud 
and  noble  face  could  lie.  And  yet,  this  wretched 
apartment  seemed  to  him  denuded  of  all  the  romance 
of  love,  which  beautifies  everything;    he   saw  it, 


THE   PURSE  223 

dirty  and  faded,  considered  it  as  the  picture  of  an 
ignoble,  idle,  vicious  home  life.  Are  not  our  feel- 
ings written  so  to  speak  on  the  things  that  surround 
us?  The  next  morning  he  rose  after  a  sleepless 
night.  The  heart's  sorrow,  that  serious  moral  sick- 
ness, had  made  great  progress. 

To  lose  an  imaginary  happiness,  to  give  up  a 
whole  future,  is  more  acute  pain  than  that  caused 
by  an  experienced  joy,  however  perfect  it  may  have 
been ;  is  not  hope  better  than  memory  ?  The  reflec- 
tions into  which  our  mind  suddenly  plunges,  are 
then  like  a  shoreless  sea  on  the  bosom  of  which  we 
may  swim  for  a  moment,  but  where  our  love  must 
drown  and  perish.  And  it  is  an  awful  death.  Are 
not  our  feelings  the  most  brilliant  part  of  our  life.? 
From  this  partial  death  there  result,  in  certain  deli- 
cate or  vigorous  organizations,  the  fearful  ravages 
produced  by  disenchantments,  by  hopes  and  pas- 
sions betrayed.  So  it  was  with  the  young  painter. 
He  went  out  very  early,  and  went  for  a  walk  under 
the  refreshing  shade  of  the  Tuileries,  absorbed  in 
his  thoughts,  oblivious  to  the  whole  world.  There, 
by  chance,  he  met  one  of  his  most  intimate  friends, 
a  college  and  studio  companion,  with  whom  he  had 
lived  more  happily  than  with  a  brother. 

"Well !  Hippolyte!  what's  the  matter  with  you.-"' 
said  Francois  Souchet,  a  young  sculptor  who  had 
just  carried  off  the  grand  prix  and  was  soon  starting 
for  Italy. 

"I  am  very  unhappy,"  answered  Hippolyte, 
gravely. 


224  THE   PURSE 

"Then  it  is  only  a  love  affair  that  could  sadden 
you.    Money,  glory,  esteem,  you  have  everything." 

Insensibly  confidences  began,  and  the  painter 
confessed  his  love.  The  moment  he  mentioned  the 
Rue  de  Suresnes  and  a  young  lady  lodging  on  the 
fourth  floor : 

"Stop!"  cried  Souchet  gaily ;  "that  is  a  little  girl 
whom  I  see  going  every  morning  to  the  Assumption, 
and  whom  I  am  courting.  But,  my  dear  fellow,  we 
all  know  her.  Her  mother  is  a  baroness!  Do  you 
believe  in  baronesses  who  lodge  on  the  fourth  floor.? 
Brrr !  Ah !  well,  you  are  a  man  of  the  Golden  Age. 
We  see  the  old  mother  every  day  in  this  alley;  but 
she  has  a  figure,  an  appearance,  which  tell  all. 
What !  you  have  not  guessed  the  sort  of  woman  she 
is  from  the  way  she  holds  her  bag?" 

The  two  friends  walked  for  a  long  time,  and  sev- 
eral young  men  who  knew  Souchet  or  Schinner 
joined  them.  The  painter's  adventure,  looked 
upon  as  of  little  importance,  was  related  to  them 
by  the  sculptor. 

"He  also,"  he  said,  "has  seen  that  little  one!" 

There  followed  remarks,  laughs,  and  the  inno- 
cent mockery  marked  by  the  gaiety  which  is  famil- 
iar to  artists,  but  which  made  Hippolyte  suffer 
horribly.  A  certain  modesty  of  mind  made  him 
uncomfortable  in  seeing  his  heart's  secret  treated  so 
lightly,  his  passion  dissected,  torn  to  shreds,  and  a 
young  unknown  girl  whose  life  appeared  so  simple, 
subjected  to  real  or  false  judgments  delivered  with 
so  much  heedlessness.     He  pretended  to  be  moved 


THE  PURSE  225 

by  a  spirit  of  contradiction,  he  seriously  asked  each 
one  for  the  proofs  of  his  assertions,  and  the  jokes 
began  again. 

"But,  my  dear  fellow,  have  you  seen  the  bar- 
oness' shawl  ?"  said  Souchet. 

"Have  you  followed  the  little  one  when  she  trots 
every  morning  to  the  Assumption?"  said  Joseph 
Bridau,  a  young  pupil  in  Gros's  studio. 

"Ah!  the  mother  has,  amongst  other  virtues,  a 
certain  grey  dress  which  I  consider  a  model,"  said 
Bixiou,  the  caricaturist. 

"Listen,  Hippolyte, "  resumed  the  sculptor, 
"come  here  about  four  o'clock,  and  analyze  a  little 
the  mother's  and  daughter's  walk.  If,  after  that, 
you  still  have  doubts!  well,  we  shall  never  make 
anything  of  you;  you  would  be  capable  of  marrying 
your  porter's  daughter." 

Tormented  by  the  most  conflicting  sentiments,  the 
painter  left  his  friends.  It  seemed  to  him  that 
Adelaide  and  her  mother  must  be  above  these  ac- 
cusations, and  he  felt,  at  the  bottom  of  his  heart, 
remorse  for  having  suspected  the  purity  of  this 
beautiful,  simple  young  girl.  He  went  to  his  studio, 
passed  by  the  door  of  Adelaide's  apartment,  and  felt 
a  pang  which  deceives  no  man.  He  loved  Made- 
moiselle de  Rouville  so  passionately,  that,  in  spite 
of  the  theft  of  the  purse,  he  still  adored  her.  His 
love  resembled  that  of  the  Chevalier  des  Grieux 
admiring  and  purifying  his  mistress  even  on  the 
cart  which  takes  lost  women  to  prison. 

"Why  should  not  my  love  make  her  the  purest  of 
15 


226  THE   PURSE 

all  women?    Why  abandon  her  to  evil  and  vice, 
without  stretching  out  a  friendly  hand?" 

The  idea  of  this  mission  delighted  him.  Love 
makes  the  best  of  everything.  Nothing  fascinates 
a  young  man  more  than  to  play  the  part  of  a  good 
genius  to  a  woman.  There  is  an  indescribable 
romance  in  the  enterprise,  which  suits  exalted 
minds.  Is  it  not  the  greatest  devotion  in  the  most 
lofty,  the  most  gracious  form  ?  Is  there  not  some 
greatness  in  knowing  that  one  loves  enough  to  still 
love  when  the  love  of  others  fades  and  dies  out? 
Hippolyte  sat  down  in  his  studio,  contemplated  his 
picture  without  working  at  it,  seeing  the  figures 
through  tears  that  rolled  from  his  eyes,  always 
holding  the  brush  in  his  hand,  approaching  the  can- 
vas as  if  to  soften  some  tint  and  not  touching  it. 

Night  came  and  found  him  in  this  attitude. 
Roused  from  his  reverie  by  the  darkness,  he  went 
down,  met  the  old  admiral  on  the  stairs,  gave  him 
a  lurid  look  as  he  bowed,  and  fled.  He  had  intended 
going  in  to  see  his  neighbors,  but  the  sight  of  Ade- 
laide's protector  froze  his  heart  and  changed  his 
resolution.  He  asked  himself  for  the  hundredth  time 
what  motive  could  draw  this  old  intriguer,  with 
eighty  thousand  francs  a  year,  to  this  fourth  floor 
where  he  lost  about  forty  francs  every  night;  and 
he  thought  he  could  guess  what  motive  it  was.  The 
next  and  following  days,  Hippolyte  threw  himself 
into  his  work  in  an  attempt  to  fight  his  passion  by 
the  enthusiasm  of  ideas  and  the  ardor  of  conception. 
He  half  succeeded.     Study  consoled  him  without, 


THE  PURSE  227 

however,  stifling  the  recollections  of  so  many  ten- 
der hours  passed  with  Adelaide.  One  evening,  in 
leaving  his  studio,  he  found  the  door  of  the  two 
ladies'  apartment  half  open.  Someone  was  stand- 
ing up,  in  the  embrasure  of  the  window.  The 
arrangement  of  the  door  and  the  staircase  made  it 
impossible  for  the  painter  to  pass  without  seeing 
Adelaide;  he  bowed  coldly,  giving  her  a  look  full  of 
indifference;  but,  judging  this  young  girl's  suffer- 
ings by  his  own,  he  felt  an  inward  qualm  in  think- 
ing of  the  bitterness  this  look  and  coldness  must 
cause  a  loving  heart.  To  crown  the  sweetest 
pleasures  that  ever  rejoiced  two  pure  souls,  by  a 
week's  disdain,  by  the  deepest  scorn,  the  most  ob- 
stinate— horrible  ending!  Perhaps  the  purse  had 
been  found,  and  perhaps,  every  evening,  Adelaide 
had  expected  her  friend.  This  simple,  natural 
thought  caused  the  lover  fresh  remorse;  he  asked 
himself  whether  the  proofs  of  attachment  the  young 
girl  had  shown  him,  the  delightful  talks,  breath- 
ing of  a  love  that  had  charmed  him,  did  not  merit  at 
least  one  inquiry,  were  not  worth  some  justification. 
Ashamed  of  having  resisted  the  desire  of  his  heart 
for  a  whole  week,  and  feeling  that  this  opposition 
was  almost  criminal,  he  called  the  same  evening 
upon  Madame  de  Rouville.  All  his  suspicions,  all 
his  evil  thoughts,  vanished  at  sight  of  the  pale,  at- 
tenuated young  girl. 

"Eh!  good  God!  what's  the  matter  with  you?" 
he  said  to  her  after  having  greeted  the  baroness. 

Adelaide  did  not  answer,  but  gave  him  a  look  full 


228  THE   PURSE 

of  sorrow,  a  dreary,  discouraged  look  which  hurt 
him. 

"You  have  doubtless  been  working  very  hard, " 
said  the  old  lady,  "you  are  altered.  We  are  the 
cause  of  your  seclusion.  The  portrait  must  have 
delayed  some  pictures  which  are  of  consequence  to 
your  reputation." 

Hippolyte  was  pleased  to  find  so  good  an  excuse 
for  his  incivility. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "I  have  been  extremely  busy; 
but  I  have  suffered — " 

At  these  words,  Adelaide  raised  her  head,  looked 
at  her  lover,  and  her  anxious  eyes  reproached  him 
no  more. 

"Did  you  then  suppose  we  were  very  indifferent  as 
to  whether  you  might  be  happy  or  unhappy?"  said 
the  old  lady. 

"I  was  wrong,"  he  said,  "and  yet,  there  are 
some  sufferings  that  one  could  not  confide  to  any 
one,  not  even  to  an  earlier  affection  than  that  with 
which  you  honor  me—" 

"Sincerity,  and  the  strength  of  friendship,  should 
not  be  measured  by  time.  1  have  known  old  friends 
not  to  shed  a  tear  in  misfortune,"  said  the  baroness, 
tossing  her  head. 

"But  what  is  the  matter  with  you?"  asked  the 
young  man  of  Adelaide. 

"Oh!  nothing,"  answered  the  baroness,  "Ade- 
laide has  spent  several  nights  in  finishing  some  work, 
and  would  not  listen  to  me  when  I  told  her  that  one 
day  more  or  less  was  of  little  consequence — " 


THE  PURSE  229 

Hippolyte  was  not  listening.  Seeing  these  two 
noble,  serene  faces,  he  was  ashamed  of  his  suspi- 
cions, and  attributed  the  loss  of  his  purse  to  some 
mysterious  accident.  The  evening  was  sweet  to 
him  and  perhaps  to  her  too.  There  are  secrets 
which  young  minds  understand  so  well !  Adelaide 
guessed  Hippolyte's  thoughts.  Without  wishing  to 
confess  his  errors,  the  painter  acknowledged  them, 
and  returned  to  his  mistress  more  loving  and  more 
affectionate,  trying  thus  to  win  a  tacit  pardon. 
Adelaide  was  tasting  such  perfect,  sweet  joy  that 
she  thought  all  the  misery  which  had  so  cruelly 
bruised  her  soul  was  not  too  much  to  pay  for  it. 
The  really  genuine  harmony  of  their  hearts,  this 
magic  understanding  was,  nevertheless,  troubled  by 
a  word  from  the  Baronne  de  Rouville. 

"Shall  we  make  up  our  little  game?"  she  said, 
"for  my  old  Kergarouet  is  very  hard  upon  me." 

These  words  reawakened  all  the  young  painter's 
fears,  and  he  reddened  in  looking  at  Adelaide's 
mother,  but  he  saw  nothing  in  her  face  but  an  ex- 
pression of  honest  kindliness;  no  hidden  intention 
destroyed  the  charm,  the  delicacy  was  in  no  sense 
treacherous;  the  mischief  in  it  seemed  harmless,  and 
no  remorse  disturbed  her  calm.  So  he  sat  down  at 
the  card-table.  Adelaide  wished  to  share  the  painter's 
lot,  asserting  that  he  did  not  know  piquet  and  needed 
a  partner.  Madame  de  Rouville  and  her  daughter, 
during  the  game,  exchanged  signs  of  intelligence 
which  made  Hippolyte  all  the  more  uneasy  in  that 
he  was  winning;  but,  in  the  end,  a  last  trick  placed 


230  THE   PURSE 

the  two  lovers  in  the  baroness'  debt.  Intending  to 
look  in  his  pocket  for  money,  the  painter  drew 
his  hands  from  beneath  the  table,  and  then  saw  be- 
fore him  a  purse  that  Adelaide  had  slipped  there 
unbeknown  to  him;  the  poor  child  was  holding  the 
old  one,  and  to  keep  herself  in  countenance  was 
searching  it  for  the  money  to  pay  her  mother.  All 
Hippolyte's  blood  rushed  so  violently  to  his  heart, 
that  he  nearly  lost  consciousness.  The  new  purse 
replacing  his  own,  and  which  contained  his  fifteen 
louis,  was  embroidered  with  gold  beads.  The  knots 
and  tassels  all  testified  to  Adelaide's  good  taste,  and 
no  doubt  she  had  spent  all  her  evenings  on  the  decora- 
tions of  this  charming  piece  of  work.  It  would  have 
been  impossible  to  have  said  with  more  delicacy 
that  the  painter's  gift  could  only  be  requited  by  a 
mark  of  affection.  When  Hippolyte,  overcome  with 
happiness,  turned  his  eyes  on  Adelaide  and  on  the 
baroness,  he  saw  them  trembling  with  pleasure  and 
delighted  with  this  charming  trick.  He  felt  hum- 
bled, mean,  and  foolish;  he  would  like  to  have 
punished  himself,  to  have  rent  his  heart.  Tears 
came  to  his  eyes,  he  rose  under  an  irresistible  im- 
pulse, took  Adelaide  in  his  arms,  pressed  her  to  his 
heart  and  overwhelmed  her  with  kisses;  then,  with 
all  an  artist's  good  faith: 

"Let  me  make  her  my  wife!"  he  cried,  looking 
at  the  baroness. 

Adelaide  looked  at  the  painter  half  angrily,  and 
Madame  de  Rouville,  a  little  astonished,  was  seeking 
a  reply,  when  this  scene  was  interrupted  by  the 


THE   PURSE  231 

ringing  of  the  bell.  The  old  vice-admiral  appeared 
followed  by  his  shadow  and  by  Madame  Schinner. 
After  having  guessed  the  cause  of  the  grief  which 
her  son  vainly  tried  to  hide  from  her,  Hippolyte's 
mother  had  made  enquiries  from  several  of  her 
friends  about  Adelaide.  Justly  alarmed  by  the  cal- 
umnies which  hung  over  this  young  girl  unknown 
to  the  Comte  de  Kergarouet,  whose  name  was  told 
her  by  the  porter,  she  had  gone  to  relate  them  to 
the  vice-admiral,  who,  in  his  anger,  "would  have 
liked,"  he  said,  "to  have  cut  off  these  rascals' ears." 
Excited  by  his  anger,  the  admiral  had  told  Madame 
Schinner  the  secret  of  his  voluntary  losses  at  cards, 
since  the  baroness'  pride  only  left  him  this  ingen- 
ious method  of  helping. 

When  Madame  Schinner  had  greeted  Madame  de 
Rouville,  the  latter  looked  at  the  Comte  de  Kerga- 
rouet, the  Chevalier  du  Halga,  an  old  friend  of  the 
late  Comtesse  de  Kergarouet,  Hippolyte  and  Ade- 
laide, and  gracefully  said:  "It  seems  that  we  are  a 
family  party  to-night." 

Paris,  May,  1832. 


THE  VENDETTA 


(233) 


TO  PUTTINATI 
A  MILANESE  SCULPTOR 


(235) 


THE  VENDETTA 


In  the  year  1800,  towards  the  end  of  the  month  of 
October,  a  stranger,  accompanied  by  a  woman  and 
a  little  girl,  arrived  at  the  Tuileries,  in  Paris,  and 
stood  rather  a  long  time  beside  the  ruins  of  a  recently 
demolished  house,  upon  the  spot  now  occupied  by 
the  wing  which  has  been  begun,  to  unite  the 
chateau  of  Catherine  de  Medici  to  the  Louvre  des 
Valois.  He  remained  there  standing,  with  his  arms 
folded,  his  head  bent,  although  he  occasionally 
raised  it  to  look  alternately  at  the  consular  palace, 
and  at  his  wife,  who  was  seated  near  him  on  a 
stone.  Although  the  strange  woman  appeared  to  be 
absorbed  in  playing  with  the  long  black  hair  of  the 
little  nine-  or  ten-year-old  girl,  she  did  not  lose  any 
of  the  looks  her  companion  gave  her.  The  same 
feeling,  other  than  love,  united  these  two  beings, 
and  inspired  the  same  anxiety  in  their  actions  and 
thoughts.  Misery  is,  perhaps,  the  most  powerful  of 
all  ties.  The  stranger  possessed  one  of  those  grand, 
massive  heads  with  abundant  hair,  that  have  so 
often  formed  a  study  for  the  brush  of  the  Caracci. 
His  black  hair  was  largely  streaked  with  white. 
Although    noble  and    haughty,  his   features  had  a 

(237) 


238  THE  VENDETTA 

hard  expression  which  spoilt  them.  In  spite  of  his 
strength  and  upright  figure,  he  seemed  to  be  more 
than  sixty.  His  shabby  clothes  showed  that  he 
came  from  a  distant  country.  Although  the  once 
beautiful,  but  now  faded  face  of  the  woman  betrayed 
profound  sadness,  when  her  husband  looked  at  her 
she  forced  a  smile  and  assumed  a  calm  countenance. 
The  little  girl  was  standing,  in  spite  of  the  traces  of 
fatigue  in  her  sunburnt  face.  She  had  an  Italian 
appearance,  great  black  eyes  beneath  strongly 
arched  eyebrows;  a  natural  nobility,  a  true  grace. 
More  than  one  passer-by  felt  moved  at  the  lonely 
aspect  of  this  group,  the  members  of  which  made 
not  the  slightest  effort  to  conceal  a  despair  as  deep 
as  its  expression  was  simple;  but  the  fountain  of 
this  fleeting  kindness  which  distinguishes  Parisians 
was  promptly  dried  up.  As  soon  as  the  stranger 
thought  himself  the  object  of  some  idler's  attention, 
he  would  look  at  him  with  so  fierce  an  air  that  the 
boldest  loiterer  hastened  his  step  as  if  he  had 
trodden  on  a  snake.  After  remaining  for  a  long 
time  in  indecision,  the  big  stranger  suddenly  passed 
his  hand  across  his  brow,  and  chased  away,  as  it 
were,  the  thoughts  that  had  furrowed  it  with 
wrinkles,  and  doubtless  took  some  desperate  reso- 
lution. After  casting  a  piercing  look  at  his  wife  and 
daughter,  he  drew  a  long  dagger  from  his  vest,  held 
it  out  to  his  wife,  and  said  to  her  in  Italian: 

"  I  am  going  to  see  if  the  Bonapartes  remember 


us." 


And  he  walked  with  a  slow,  steady  step  towards 


THE  VENDETTA  239 

the  entrance  to  the  palace,  where  he  was  naturally 
stopped  by  a  soldier  of  the  consular  guard  with 
whom  he  could  not  argue  long.  Seeing  the 
stranger's  obstinacy,  the  sentinel  presented  his 
bayonet  by  way  of  an  ultimatum.  Chance  ordained 
that  at  this  moment  the  soldier's  watch  should  be 
relieved  and  the  corporal  very  obligingly  showed 
the  stranger  in  which  direction  to  find  the  com- 
mander of  the  guard-house. 

"  Tell  Bonaparte  that  Bartolomeo  di  Piombo 
would  like  to  speak  with  him,"  said  the  Italian  to 
the  captain  on  duty. 

In  vain  the  officer  reminded  Bartolomeo  that  no 
one  could  see  the  First  Consul  without  having  pre- 
viously written  to  ask  for  an  audience,  the  stranger 
absolutely  insisted  that  the  soldier  should  go  and 
inform  Bonaparte.  The  officer  put  forward  the  rules 
of  the  orders,  and  plainly  refused  to  obey  the  request 
of  this  singular  petitioner.  Bartolomeo  frowned,  gave 
the  commander  a  terrible  look,  and  seemed  to  hold 
him  responsible  for  all  the  misery  that  this  refusal 
might  occasion;  then  he  was  silent,  resolutely 
crossed  his  arms  over  his  chest,  and  went  to  station 
himself  under  the  portico  communicating  with  the 
courtyard  and  the  Tuileries  garden.  People  who 
wish  a  thing  very  strongly  are  nearly  always  helped 
by  chance.  Just  as  Bartolomeo  di  Piombo  was 
seating  himself  on  one  of  the  boundary  stones  that  are 
near  the  entrance  to  the  Tuileries,  a  carriage  drove 
up,  from  which  descended  Lucien  Bonaparte,  then 
Minister  of  the  Interior. 


240  THE  VENDETTA 

"Ah!  Loucian,  how  lucky  for  me  to  meet  you!" 
cried  the  stranger. 

These  words,  uttered  in  a  Corsican  patois, 
stopped  Lucien  just  as  he  was  springing  under  the 
archway;  he  looked  at  his  compatriot  and  recog- 
nized him.  At  the  first  word  whispered  by  Bartolo- 
meo,  he  led  the  Corsican  with  him.  Murat,  Lannes 
and  Rapp  were  in  the  First  Consul's  private  room. 
Lucien's  entrance,  followed  by  such  a  singular  man 
as  Piombo,  stopped  the  conversation.  Lucien  took 
Napoleon's  hand  and  led  him  into  the  recess  of  the 
window.  After  having  exchanged  a  few  words  with 
his  brother,  the  First  Consul  made  a  sign  with  his 
hand  that  Murat  and  Lannes  obeyed  in  retiring. 
Rapp  pretended  to  have  seen  nothing,  so  as  to  be  able 
to  remain.  Bonaparte  having  spoken  to  him  sharply, 
the  aide-de-camp  went  out  reluctantly.  The  First 
Consul,  hearing  the  sound  of  Rapp's  footsteps  in  the 
next  salon,  went  out  brusquely  and  saw  him  close 
to  the  wall  separating  his  cabinet  from  the  salon. 

"  Then  you  will  not  understand  me?"  said  the 
First  Consul,  "  I  want  to  be  alone  with  my  fellow- 
countryman." 

"A  Corsican,"  answered  the  aide-de-camp,  "I 
distrust  those  people  too  much  not  to — " 

The  First  Consul  could  not  help  smiling,  and 
lightly  pushed  his  faithful  officer  away  by  the 
shoulders. 

"Well,  what  have  you  come  here  for,  my  poor 
Bartolomeo?"  said  the  First  Consul  to  Piombo. 

"To  ask  you  for  shelter  and  protection,  if  you 


THE  VENDETTA  24 1 

are  a  true  Corsican,"  answered  Bartolomeo, 
brusquely. 

"What  misfortune  has  driven  you  from  the 
country?     You  were  the  richest,  the  most — " 

**  I  have  killed  all  the  Porta,"  replied  the  Corsican 
in  a  deep  voice,  knitting  his  brows. 

The  First  Consul  started  back  as  if  in  surprise. 

"You  will  betray  me?"  cried  Bartolomeo,  giving 
Bonaparte  a  dark  look.  "  Do  you  know  that  there 
are  still  four  more  Piombo  in  Corsica?" 

Lucien  seized  his  compatriot's  arm  and  shook  it. 

"  Have  you  come  here  then  to  threaten  the  Savior 
of  France,"  he  said  sharply. 

Bonaparte  made  a  sign  to  Lucien,  who  held  his 
tongue.     Then  he  looked  at  Piombo,  and  said: 

"Why  did  you  kill  the  Porta?" 

"We  had  made  friends,"  he  replied,  "the  Bar- 
banti  had  reconciled  us.  The  day  after  we  had 
been  drinking  together  to  drown  our  quarrels,  I  left 
them  because  I  had  business  at  Bastia.  They  re- 
mained at  my  house  and  set  fire  to  my  vine  at 
Longone.  They  killed  my  son  Gregorio.  My 
daughter  Ginevra  and  my  wife  escaped  them;  they 
had  received  the  Sacrament .  in  the  morning,  the 
Virgin  had  protected  them.  When  I  returned,  I 
could  not  find  my  house,  I  was  seeking  it  with  my 
feet  in  its  ashes.  All  of  a  sudden  I  stumbled  against 
Gregorio's  body,  which  I  recognized  by  the  light  of 
the  moon.  'Oh!  the  Porta  have  struck  the  blow!' 
I  said  to  myself.  I  went  at  once  to  the  woods,  I 
there  collected  several  men  to  whom  I  had  rendered 
16 


242  THE  VENDETTA 

some  service,  do  you  understand,  Bonaparte?  and 
we  marched  against  the  Porta's  vine.  We  arrived 
at  five  in  the  morning;  at  seven,  they  were  all  before 
God.  Giacomo  declares  that  Elisa  Vanni  saved  a 
child,  the  little  Luigi;  but  I  fastened  him  to  his  bed 
myself  before  setting  fire  to  the  house.  I  left  the 
island  with  my  wife  and  child  without  being  able  to 
ascertain  whether  Luigi  Porta  still  lived." 

Bonaparte  looked  at  Bartolomeo  with  curiosity, 
but  no  astonishment. 

"How  many  of  them  were  there?"  asked 
Lucien. 

"  Seven,"  replied  Piombo;  "  they  were  your  per- 
secutors at  one  time." 

These  words  roused  no  expression  of  hatred  from 
the  two  brothers. 

"Ah!  you  are  Corsicans  no  longer!"  cried  Bar- 
tolomeo with  a  sort  of  despair,  "Good-bye.  For- 
merly 1  protected  you,"  he  added,  in  a  reproachful 
tone,  "without  me,  your  mother  would  never  have 
reached  Marseilles,"  he  said  to  Bonaparte,  who  was 
standing  full  of  thought,  leaning  his  elbow  upon  the 
mantel-piece. 

"Conscientiously,  Piombo,"  answered  Napoleon, 
"  1  cannot  take  you  under  my  wing.  I  am  now  the 
head  of  a  great  nation,  1  command  the  Republic,  and 
must  see  that  the  laws  are  executed." 

"Ah!  ah!"  said  Bartolomeo. 

"  But  1  can  shut  my  eyes,"  continued  Bonaparte, 
"  the  prejudice  of  the  vendetta  will  prevent  the  reign- 
ing of  all  laws  in  Corsica  for  a  long  time,"  he  added, 


THE  VENDETTA  243 

speaking  to  himself.  "  And  yet  it  must  be  destroyed 
at  all  costs." 

Bonaparte  was  silent  for  a  moment,  and  Lucien 
signed  to  Piombo  to  say  nothing.  The  Corsican 
was  already  shaking  his  head  disapprovingly  from 
right  to  left. 

"Stay  here,"  resumed  the  Consul,  addressing 
Bartolomeo,  "we  shall  know  nothing.  I  will  have 
your  property  bought,  so  as  to  give  you,  in  the  first 
place,  the  means  of  subsistence.  Then,  after  a 
time,  later  on,  we  will  think  of  you.  But  no  more 
vendetta!  There  are  no  thickets  here.  If  you  play 
with  a  dagger,  there  will  be  no  pardon  to  hope  for. 
Here,  the  law  protects  all  citizens,  and  one  does  not 
execute  justice  for  one's  self." 

"He  has  made  himself  chief  of  a  strange  coun- 
try," answered  Bartolomeo,  taking  Lucien's  hand 
and  squeezing  it;  "but  you  remember  me  in  misfor- 
tune, there  will  now  be  eternal  friendship  between 
us,  and  you  may  dispose  of  all  the  Piombo." 

At  these  words,  the  Corsican's  brow  cleared,  and 
he  looked  round  with  satisfaction. 

"It  is  not  bad  here,"  he  said  smiling,  as  if  he 
would  have  liked  to  stay  there.  "And  you  are 
dressed  all  in  red,  like  a  cardinal." 

"  It  only  depends  upon  you  to  be  successful  and 
have  a  palace  in  Paris,"  said  Bonaparte,  measuring 
his  fellow  countryman.  "  It  will  often  happen  that 
I  shall  look  around  me  in  search  of  a  faithful  friend 
in  whom  I  can  trust." 

A  sigh  of  joy  burst  from  Piombo's  great  chest, 


244  THE  VENDETTA 

and  he  held  out  his  hand  to  the  First  Consul, 
saying: 

"  There  is  still  some  of  the  Corsican  in  you!" 

Bonaparte  smiled.  He  silently  looked  at  this  man, 
who  brought  him  in  some  sort  the  air  of  his  native 
land,  that  island  where  he  had  but  lately  been  so 
miraculously  saved  from  the  hatred  of  the  English 
party,  and  which  he  was  not  to  see  again.  He 
made  a  sign  to  his  brother,  who  led  away  Bartolomeo 
di  Piombo.  Lucien  enquired  with  interest  into  the 
financial  position  of  his  family's  former  protector. 
Piombo  led  the  Minister  of  the  Interior  to  a  window, 
and  showed  him  his  wife  and  Ginevra,  both  sitting 
on  a  heap  of  stones. 

"We  have  walked  here  from  Fontainebleau,  and 
we  have  not  a  farthing,"  he  said. 

Lucien  gave  his  purse  to  his  compatriot  and 
advised  him  to  come  and  find  him  the  next  day,  so 
as  to  consider  the  best  means  of  assuring  the  posi- 
tion of  his  family.  The  total  value  of  Piombo's 
possessions  in  Corsica  would  scarcely  enable  him  to 
live  properly  in  Paris. 

Fifteen  years  elapsed  between  the  arrival  of  the 
Piombo  family  in  Paris,  and  the  following  adventure, 
which,  without  an  account  of  these  events,  would 
have  been  less  intelligible. 


* 

Servin,  one  of  our  most  distinguished  artists,  was 
the  first  to  conceive  the  idea  of  opening  a  studio  for 
young  girls  who  wished  to  take  painting  lessons. 
Forty  years  old,  highly  moral,  and  entirely  devoted 
to  his  art,  he  had  made  a  love  match  with  a  daughter 
of  a  penniless  general.  At  first  the  mothers  them- 
selves brought  their  daughters  to  the  professor's; 
then  they  finished  by  sending  them,  when  they  came 
to  know  his  principles  and  appreciate  the  care  he 
took  to  deserve  confidence.  It  was  part  of  the 
painter's  scheme  only  to  accept  as  students  young 
ladies  belonging  to  rich  or  respected  families  so 
as  to  avoid  reproach  for  the  character  of  his  studio; 
he  even  refused  to  take  young  girls  who  wished  to 
become  artists  and  to  whom  he  would  have  been 
obliged  to  give  certain  instructions  without  which 
there  is  no  talent  possible  in  painting.  By  degrees 
the  prudence,  the  superiority  with  which  he  initiated 
his  pupils  into  the  secrets  of  art,  the  certainty  felt 
by  the  mothers  in  knowing  their  daughters  to  be  in 
the  company  of  well-bred  young  girls,  and  the 
security  inspired  by  the  character,  morals,  and  mar- 
riage of  the  artist,  gained  him  an  excellent  reputa- 
tion in  fashionable  circles.  When  a  young  girl 
expressed  a  desire  to  learn  painting  or  drawing,  and 
her  mother  asked  advice,  "Send  her  to  Servin!" 
was  everyone's  reply.    So  Servin  became  a  specialty 

(245) 


246  THE  VENDETTA 

for  feminine  painting,  like  Herbault  for  hats,  Leroy 
for  fashions  and  Chevet  for  edibles.  It  was  observed 
that  a  young  woman  who  had  taken  lessons  at 
Servin's  could  give  a  final  judgment  on  the  pictures 
of  the  Musee,  paint  a  portrait  uncommonly  well, 
copy  a  picture  and  paint  her  genre  picture.  This 
artist  accordingly  satisfied  all  the  requirements  of 
the  aristocracy.  In  spite  of  his  relations  with  the 
best  houses  in  Paris,  he  was  independent,  patriotic, 
and  maintained  with  everyone  that  light,  witty  and 
sometimes  ironical  tone,  and  liberty  of  opinion  which 
distinguishes  the  artist.  He  had  carried  the  strict- 
ness of  his  precautions  even  to  the  arrangement  of 
the  room  where  his  pupils  studied.  The  entrance  to 
the  attic  which  extended  over  his  rooms  had  been 
walled  up.  To  reach  this  retreat,  as  sacred  as  a 
harem,  it  was  necessary  to  ascend  a  staircase  con- 
trived inside  his  residence.  The  studio,  which  took 
up  the  whole  of  the  top  of  the  house,  presented 
those  enormous  proportions  which  always  surprise 
onlookers,  when,  having  climbed  sixty  feet  from  the 
ground,  they  expect  to  see  artists  lodging  in  the 
gutter.  This  species  of  gallery  was  profusely 
lighted  by  immense  glass  windows  furnished  with 
those  great  green  blinds  with  which  painters  regu- 
late the  light.  A  crowd  of  caricatures,  heads  in 
outline,  either  done  in  color  or  with  the  point  of  a 
knife  upon  the  dark-gray  painted  walls,  proved,  save 
for  the  difference  in  expression,  that  the  most  refined 
girls  have  as  much  extravagance  of  imagination  as 
men  can  have.     A  little  stove  and  its  great  pipes, 


THE  VENDETTA  247 

describing  a  hideous  zigzag  before  reaching  the 
higher  regions  of  the  roof,  was  an  inevitable  decora- 
tion in  this  studio.  A  shelf  ran  all  round  the  walls 
supporting  plaster  models  which  were  lying  in  con- 
fusion, most  of  them  covered  with  yellow  dust. 
Above  this  shelf,  here  and  there,  a  head  of  Niobe 
hanging  on  a  nail  could  be  seen  in  its  mournful  pose; 
a  Venus  smiling;  a  hand  suddenly  thrust  before 
one's  eyes,  like  that  of  a  beggar  asking  alms;  then 
several  torches,  yellowed  by  smoke,  looking  like 
limbs  just  torn  from  coffms;  in  short,  the  paintings, 
drawings,  dummies,  the  pictureless  frames  and. 
frameless  pictures  combined  to  give  this  untidy 
apartment  the  appearance  of  a  studio  remarkable 
for  a  singular  mixture  of  ornament  and  nakedness, 
poverty  and  wealth,  of  care  and  indifference.  This 
enormous  interior,  where  everything,  even  man, 
appears  small,  savors  of  the  green-room  of  the 
Opera;  there  is  old  linen,  gilded  armor,  fragments  of 
cloth,  and  mechanism;  but  there  is  an  indefinable 
grandeur  like  thought;  genius  and  death  are  there; 
Diana  or  Apollo  alongside  a  skull  or  a  skeleton, 
beauty  and  confusion,  poetry  and  reality,  rich  colors 
in  shadow,  and  often  a  whole  still  and  silent  drama. 
How  symbolical  of  an  artist's  mind! 

At  the  time  this  story  begins,  a  brilliant  July  sun 
was  illumining  the  studio,  and  two  rays,  traversing 
its  extent,  formed  great  bands  of  diaphanous  gold 
sparkling  with  grains  of  dust.  A  dozen  easels  reared 
their  pointed  heads,  like  masts  of  vessels  in  a  port. 
Several  young  girls  enlivened  this  scene  with  the 


248  THE  VENDETTA 

variety  of  their  physiognomies,  their  attitudes,  and 
,  the  difference  in  their  costumes.  The  strong 
shadows  cast  by  the  green  serges,  placed  according 
to  the  requirements  of  each  easel,  produced  a  multi- 
tude of  contrasts,  and  piquant  effects  of  light  and 
shade.  This  group  was  the  most  beautiful  of  all 
the  pictures  in  the  studio.  One  young,  fair  girl, 
simply  dressed,  was  sitting  apart  from  her  com- 
panions, working  bravely  whilst  seeming  to  anticipate 
unsuccess;  nobody  looked  at  her  or  spoke  a  word  to 
her;  she  was  the  prettiest,  the  most  modest  and 
the  poorest  of  them.  Two  principal  groups,  sepa- 
rated by  a  slight  space,  indicated  two  parties  and 
two  spirits  even  in  this  studio  where  all  ranks  and 
fortune  ought  to  have  been  forgotten.  Sitting  or 
standing,  these  young  girls,  surrounded  by  their 
color  boxes,  playing  with  or  preparing  their  brushes, 
handling  their  shining  palettes,  painting,  talking, 
laughing,  singing,  giving  way  to  nature,  and 
betraying  their  characters,  formed  a  sight  unknown 
to  men:  this  one,  proud,  haughty,  capricious,  with 
black  hair  and  beautiful  hands,  casting  her  bright 
glance  at  random;  that  one,  heedless  and  gay,  with 
smiling  lips,  brown  hair,  white  and  delicate  hands, 
a  French  maiden,  volatile,  without  a  secret  thought 
and  living  only  in  the  present;  another,  dreamy, 
melancholy,  pale,  and  drooping  her  head  like  a 
falling  flower;  her  neighbor,  on  the  other  hand,  big, 
indolent,  of  Mussulman  habits,  with  a  long,  black 
dewy  eye;  talking  little  but  meditating,  and 
stealthily  looking  at  the  head  of  Antinous.     In  the 


THE  VENDETTA  249 

midst  of  them,  like  the  Jocoso  in  a  Spanish  play,  full 
of  wit  and  epigrammatic  sallies,  was  a  girl,  watching 
them  all  at  a  glance,  making  them  laugh  and 
incessantly  lifting  her  face  which  was  too  lively  not 
to  be  pretty;  she  was  the  leader  of  the  first  group 
of  pupils,  which  included  the  daughters  of  bankers, 
solicitors  and  merchants;  all  rich,  but  experiencing 
all  the  imperceptible,  though  stinging  disdain  lavished 
upon  them  by  the  other  young  ladies  of  the 
aristocracy.  These  were  governed  by  the  daughter 
of  an  usher  in  the  king's  cabinet,  a  little  creature, 
as  foolish  as  she  was  vain,  and  proud  of  owning  as 
father  a  man  having  a  post  at  Court;  she  always 
wished  to  appear  as  if  she  had  understood  the 
master's  remarks  at  once,  and  seemed  to  work  as  a 
favor;  she  used  an  eyeglass,  always  came  very 
much  dressed  up,  and  late,  and  used  to  implore  her 
companions  to  speak  softly.  In  this  second  group 
one  might  have  remarked  some  delicious  figures  and 
refined  faces;  but  there  was  very  little  simplicity  in 
the  looks  of  these  young  girls.  Even  if  their 
attitudes  were  elegant  and  their  movements  graceful, 
their  faces  lacked  candor,  and  one  could  easily  guess 
that  they  belonged  to  a  world  where  politeness 
early  fashions  characters,  where  the  abuse  of  social 
pleasures  kills  all  sentiment  and  develops  egotism. 
When  this  party  was  complete,  there  were  amongst 
the  number  some  young  girls  with  childish  heads, 
virgins  of  a  lovely  purity,  faces  whose  slightly 
parted  lips,  upon  which  a  virgin  smile  played, 
disclosed   virgin  teeth.     The  studio    did    not  then 


250  THE  VENDETTA 

resemble  a  seraglio,  but  a  group  of  angels  seated 
on  a  cloud  in  the  sky.  At  mid-day,  Servin  had  not 
yet  appeared.  For  several  days,  he  had  remained, 
for  the  greater  part  of  his  time,  at  a  studio  that  he 
had  elsewhere  and  where  he  was  finishing  a  picture 
for  the  Exhibition.  All  of  a  sudden.  Mademoiselle 
Amelie  Thirion,  leader  of  the  aristocratic  party  in 
this  little  assembly,  entered  into  a  long  conversation 
with  her  neighbor;  there  was  a  great  silence  in  the 
group  of  patricians.  The  astonished  banking  party 
were  silent  too,  and  tried  to  guess  the  subject  of 
such  a  conference;  but  the  secret  of  the  young 
ultras  soon  became  known.  Amelie  rose,  took  up 
an  easel  that  was  standing  near  her  and  replaced  it 
at  a  somewhat  marked  distance  from  the  noble 
group,  close  to  a  rough  partition  which  divided  the 
studio  from  a  dark  closet  where  the  broken  casts, 
the  pictures  condemned  by  the  professor  and  the 
store  of  wood  for  the  winter  use  were  kept.  Amelie's 
action  excited  a  murmur  of  astonishment  which  did 
not  prevent  her  from  completing  this  removal  by 
quickly  wheeling  the  paint-box  and  stool  close  up  to 
the  easel,  everything,  even  to  a  picture  by  Prudhon, 
which  her  companion,  now  absent,  was  in  course  of 
copying.  After  this  coup  d'etat,  although  the  right 
side  set  to  work  silently,  the  left  side  held  forth  at 
great  length. 

"What  will  Mademoiselle  Piombo  say?"  one 
young  girl  asked  Mademoiselle  Mathilde  Roguin,  the 
mischievous  oracle  of  the  first  group. 

"  She  is  not  one  to  talk,"  she  replied,  "  but,  fifty 


THE  VENDETTA  25 1 

years  hence,  she  will  remember  this  insult  as  if  it 
had  been  yesterday,  and  will  avenge  herself  cruelly. 
She  is  a  person  with  whom  I  should  not  care  to  be 
at  war." 

"  The  banishment  which  these  young  ladies  inflict 
upon  her  is  all  the  more  unjust,"  said  another  young 
girl,  "  as  the  day  before  yesterday  Ginevra  was  very 
unhappy;  her  father,  they  said,  had  just  tendered 
his  resignation.  This  will  only  add  to  her  sorrow, 
whilst  she  was  exceedingly  kind  to  these  young 
ladies  during  the  Hundred  Days.  Has  she  ever  said 
a  word  to  wound  them?  On  the  contrary,  she 
avoided  talking  politics.  But  our  ultras  seem  to  be 
actuated  by  jealousy  rather  than  by  party  spirit." 

"  I  have  a  good  mind  to  go  and  fetch  Mademoiselle 
Piombo's  easel  and  place  it  next  mine,"  said 
Mathilde  Roguin. 

She  got  up,  but  upon  thinking  it  over,  sat  down 
asain.  "With  such  a  character  as  Mademoiselle 
Ginevra's,"  she  said,  "  one  can  never  tell  how  she 
might  take  our  attentions;  let  us  await  results." 

"  Ecco  la,"  languidly  said  the  young  girl  with  the 
black  eyes. 

Indeed,  the  sound  of  somebody's  footsteps  as- 
cending the  stairs  resounded  in  the  room.  The 
words  "Here  she  comes!"  passed  from  mouth  to 
mouth,  and  the  deepest  silence  reigned  in  the 
studio. 

In  order  to  understand  the  importance  of  the 
ostracism  exercised  by  Amelie  Thirion,  it  is  neces- 
sary to  add  that  this  scene  took  place  toward  the 


252  THE  VENDETTA 

end  of  July,  1815.  The  second  return  of  the 
Bourbons  had  just  disturbed  many  friendships 
which  had  withstood  the  agitations  of  the  first 
Restoration.  At  this  moment,  many  families, 
nearly  ail  divided  in  opinion,  repeated  several  of 
those  deplorable  scenes  which  stain  the  history  of 
all  countries  in  times  of  civil  or  religious  war. 
Children,  young  girls,  old  men  all  shared  the 
monarchical  fever  which  possessed  the  government. 
Discord  was  insinuating  itself  beneath  all  roofs,  and 
distrust  tinged  the  actions  and  conversations  of  the 
most  intimate  friends  with  its  sombre  colors. 
Ginevra  Piombo  idolized  Napoleon,  and  how  could 
she  have  hated  him!  The  Emperor  was  her  fellow- 
countryman  and  her  father's  benefactor.  Of 
Napoleon's  servants,  the  Baron  de  Piombo  had 
been  the  one  to  co-operate  most  efficaciously  in  the 
return  from  the  island  of  Elba.  Incapable  of  re- 
nouncing his  political  faith,  anxious  even,  to  pro- 
claim it,  the  old  Baron  de  Piombo  remained  in  Paris 
in  the  midst  of  his  enemies.  Ginevra  Piombo 
accordingly  was  all  the  more  likely  to  be  numbered 
amongst  suspected  persons,  in  that  she  made  no 
concealment  of  the  grief  her  family  felt  at  the  second 
Restoration.  The  only  tears  she  had,  perhaps, 
ever  shed  in  her  life  were  those  wrung  from  her  by 
the  double  news  of  Bonaparte's  captivity  on  the 
Bellerophon  and  Labedoyere's  arrest. 


The  young  girls  who  composed  the  group  of 
nobles  belonged  to  the  most  exalted  royalist  families 
in  Paris.  It  is  difficult  to  give  any  idea  of  the 
excesses  of  this  period  and  the  horror  with  which 
the  Bonapartists  were  regarded. 

Insignificant  and  petty  as  Amelie  Thirion's  action 
may  appear  now-a-days,  it  was  at  that  time  an  ex- 
pression of  very  natural  hatred.  Ginevra  Piombo, 
one  of  Servin's  first  pupils,  occupied  a  place  of 
which  they  had  wished  to  deprive  her  from  the  day 
she  had  entered  the  studio;  the  aristocratic  group 
had  gradually  surrounded  her;  to  drive  her  from  a 
place  which  in  some  measure  belonged  to  her,  was 
not  only  injuring  her,  but  causing  her  a  kind  of 
suffering;  for  all  artists  have  some  place  of  pref- 
erence to  work  in.  But  political  animadversion 
possibly  had  very  little  to  do  with  the  behavior  of 
this  little  right-hand  quarter  of  the  studio.  Ginevra 
Piombo,  the  cleverest  of  all  Servin's  pupils,  was  an 
object  of  the  deepest  jealousy;  the  master  professed 
as  much  admiration  for  the  talents  as  the  character 
of  this  favorite  pupil,  who  was  held  up  as  an  ex- 
ample in  all  his  comparisons;  in  short,  without  being 
able  to  explain  the  influence  that  this  young  girl 
obtained  over  all  around  her,  she  exerted  over  this 
little  world  a  prestige  almost  similar  to  that  of 
Bonaparte  over  his  soldiers.     For   some  days  the 

(253) 


254  THE  VENDETTA 

aristocracy  of  the  studio  had  resolved  upon  the 
downfall  of  the  queen;  but,  nobody  having  yet 
dared  to  separate  herself  from  the  Bonapartist, 
Mademoiselle  Thirion  had  just  struck  a  decisive 
blow,  in  order  to  make  her  companions  accomplices 
in  her  hatred.  Although  Ginevra  was  sincerely 
loved  by  two  or  three  of  the  Royalists,  nearly  all 
of  whom  had  been  lectured  at  home  about  politics, 
they  decided,  with  that  tact  which  is  peculiar  to 
women,  that  they  had  better  remain  neutral  in  the 
quarrel.  Accordingly,  upon  her  arrival  Ginevra  was 
greeted  with  a  profound  silence.  Of  all  the  young 
girls  who  until  then  had  come  to  Servin's  studio, 
she  was  the  most  beautiful,  the  tallest  and  the  best 
formed.  Her  bearing  bore  a  stamp  of  nobleness  and 
grace  which  commanded  respect.  Her  face,  full  of 
intelligence,  seemed  almost  radiant,  so  strongly  did 
it  breathe  of  the  animation  peculiarly  Corsican  and 
which  in  no  way  precludes  tranquillity.  Her  long 
hair,  her  eyes  and  dark  lashes  told  of  passion. 
Although  the  corners  of  her  mouth  were  softly 
moulded  and  her  lips  were  a  little  too  prominent, 
they  expressed  that  goodness  which  the  conscious- 
ness of  their  power  gives  to  strong  beings.  By  an 
extraordinary  caprice  of  nature,  the  charm  of  her 
face  was,  to  a  certain  extent,  belied  by  a  marble 
forehead  marked  by  an  almost  fierce  pride,  betoken- 
ing the  manners  of  Corsica.  There  was  the  only 
bond  between  her  and  her  native  country;  in  all  the 
rest  of  her  person,  the  simplicity,  and  graceful  ease 
of  the  Lombardian  beauty  were  so  fascinating,  that 


THE  VENDETTA  255 

one  could  not  look  at  her  and  cause  her  the  least 
pain.  She  was  so  intensely  attractive,  that,  as  a 
precaution,  her  father  had  her  accompanied  to  the 
studio.  The  only  defect  in  this  truly  poetical  crea- 
ture arose  from  the  power  itself  of  so  fully  developed 
a  beauty:  she  had  the  appearance  of  a  woman. 
She  had  refused  to  marry  from  love  of  her  father 
and  mother,  feeling  herself  necessary  to  their  old 
age.  Her  taste  for  painting  had  compensated  for 
the  passions  which  usually  disturb  women. 

"You  are  very  quiet  to-day,  mesdemoiselles," 
she  said,  after  having  taken  two  or  three  steps 
amongst  her  companions.  —  "  Good-morning,  my 
little  Laure,"  she  added  in  a  gentle,  caressing  tone, 
approaching  the  young  girl  who  was  painting  apart 
from  the  others,  "  this  head  is  very  good!  The  flesh 
tints  are  a  little  too  pink,  but  it  is  all  wonderfully 
drawn!" 

Laure  raised  her  head,  looked  at  Ginevra  tenderly, 
and  their  faces  brightened  whilst  expressing  the 
same  affection.  A  faint  smile  played  upon  the 
Italian's  lips,  she  seemed  dreamy,  and  proceeded 
slowly  towards  her  place,  carelessly  glancing  at 
drawings  or  pictures,  saying  good-morning  to  each 
of  the  young  girls  of  the  first  group,  without  observ- 
ing the  unusual  curiosity  her  presence  excited.  One 
would  have  said  she  was  a  queen  surrounded  by 
her  court.  She  paid  not  the  least  attention  to  the 
profound  silence  which  reigned  amongst  the  patri- 
cians, and  passed  in  front  of  the  party  without 
saying  a  single  word.  So  great  was  her  preoccupation 


256  THE  VENDETTA 

that  she  settled  herself  at  her  easel,  opened  her 
paint-box,  took  her  brushes,  put  on  her  brown 
sleeves,  arranged  her  apron,  looked  at  her  picture, 
and  examined  her  palette  without  thinking,  so  to 
speak,  of  what  she  was  doing.  All  heads  in  the 
bourgeois  group  were  turned  towards  her.  If  the 
young  ladies  of  the  Thirion  party  did  not  show  their 
impatience  so  openly  as  their  companions,  their 
glances  were  none  the  less  directed  at  Ginevra. 

"  She  notices  nothing,"  said  Mademoiselle  Roguin. 

At  this  moment,  Ginevra  dropped  the  meditative 
attitude  in  which  she  had  been  contemplating  her 
canvas,  and  turned  her  head  towards  the  aristo- 
cratic group.  With  a  glance  she  measured  the 
distance  that  separated  her  from  them  and  remained 
silent. 

"  She  does  not  believe  that  anyone  could  have 
thought  of  insulting  her,"  said  Mathilde,  "she  did 
not  grow  pale  or  red.  How  vexed  these  young 
ladies  will  be,  if  she  prefers  her  new  place  to  the 
old  one!  You  are  out  of  line  there,  mademoiselle," 
she  then  added  aloud  to  Ginevra. 

The  Italian  pretended  not  to  hear,  or  it  may  be 
that  she  really  did  not  hear;  she  suddenly  rose, 
slowly  skirted  the  partition  dividing  the  dark  closet 
from  the  studio,  and  appeared  to  be  examining  the 
window  from  which  the  light  came,  making  it  of  so 
much  importance  that  she  got  up  on  a  chair  to  fasten 
the  green  serge  that  intercepted  the  light,  much 
higher.  Having  attained  this  height,  she  came 
upon  a  slight  chink  in  the  partition,  the  real  object 


THE  VENDETTA  257 

of  her  efforts,  for  the  look  she  cast  through  it  can 
only  be  compared  to  that  of  a  miser  discovering 
Aladdin's  treasures:  she  quickly  got  down,  returned 
to  her  place,  adjusted  her  picture,  pretended  to  be 
dissatisfied  with  the  light,  drew  a  table  to  the  parti- 
tion upon  which  she  placed  a  chair,  nimbly  climbed 
upon  this  scaffold  and  again  looked  through  the 
crack.  She  only  cast  one  glance  into  the  closet, 
then  lighted  by  a  skylight  that  some  one  had  opened, 
and  what  she  saw  there  caused  her  so  violent  a 
sensation,  that  she  started. 

"You  will  fall,  Mademoiselle  Ginevra!"  cried 
Laure.  All  looked  at  the  imprudent  girl  who  was 
tottering.  The  fear  lest  her  companions  should 
crowd  round  her  lent  her  courage.  She  recovered 
her  strength  and  her  balance,  turned  to  Laure 
whilst  swinging  herself  on  her  chair  and  said  in 
trembling  tones:  "  Bah!  at  least  it  is  a  little  firmer 
than  a  throne!" 

She  hurriedly  fastened  the  serge,  got  down, 
pushed  the  table  and  chair  far  away  from  the  parti- 
tion, returned  to  her  easel,  and  made  several  more 
trials  as  if  she  were  seeking  a  mass  of  light  to  suit 
her.  She  was  hardly  thinking  of  her  picture,  her 
object  was  to  be  near  the  dark  closet,  beside  which 
she  fixed  herself  as  she  wished,  close  to  the  door. 
Then  she  set  about  preparing  her  palette,  maintain- 
ing the  most  profound  silence.  Upon  this  spot,  she 
soon  heard  more  distinctly  the  slight  noise,  which, 
the  day  before,  had  so  strongly  excited  her  curiosity 
and  caused  her  youthful  imagination  to  travel  all 
17 


258  THE  VENDETTA 

over  the  vast  field  of  conjecture.  She  easily 
recognized  the  deep,  regular  breathing  of  the  sleep- 
ing man  she  had  just  seen.  Her  curiosity  was 
satisfied  beyond  her  desires,  but  she  found  herself 
burdened  by  a  tremendous  responsibility.  Through 
the  crevice,  she  had  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  imperial 
eagle,  and,  on  a  feebly-lighted  bed  of  sacking,  the 
figure  of  an  officer  of  the  guard.  She  guessed  all; 
Servin  was  concealing  a  fugitive.  Now,  she  trembled 
lest  any  of  her  companions  should  come  to  examine 
her  picture  and  overhear  the  wretched  man's  respira- 
tion or  too  loud  breathing,  like  that  which  had 
reached  her  ears  during  the  last  lesson.  She  resolved 
to  remain  close  to  this  door,  trusting  to  her  own 
skill  to  baffle  the  chances  of  fate. 

"  It  is  better  that  I  should  be  here,"  she  thought, 
"to  prevent  any  evil  accident,  than  leave  the  poor 
prisoner  at  the  mercy  of  some  blunder." 

Such  was  the  secret  of  the  apparent  indifference 
Ginevra  had  shown  at  finding  her  easel  disarranged; 
inwardly  she  was  delighted,  since  she  had  been 
able  to  satisfy  her  curiosity  so  naturally;  besides,  at 
this  moment,  she  was  too  deeply  preoccupied  to 
seek  the  reason  of  her  removal.  Nothing  is  more 
mortifying  to  young  girls,  as  well  as  to  everybody, 
than  to  see  a  spiteful  trick,  an  insult  or  a  witticism 
failing  in  its  effect  in  consequence  of  the  disdain 
shown  by  the  victim.  It  seems  as  if  hatred 
towards  an  enemy  grows  in  proportion  to  the 
superiority  with  which  he  rises  above  us.  Ginevra's 
conduct  was  a  mystery  to  all  her  companions.     Her 


THE  VENDETTA  259 

friends  as  well  as  her  enemies  were  equally  sur- 
prised; for  they  granted  all  possible  good  qualities 
but  that  of  forgiving  an  injury.  Although  the  inci- 
dents of  studio  life  had  very  rarely  offered  Ginevra 
any  opportunity  of  displaying  this  defect  of  character, 
the  examples  she  had  been  able  to  give  of  her 
vindictive  disposition  and  firmness,  had  none  the 
less  left  a  deep  impression  in  the  minds  of  her  com- 
panions. After  much  conjecture.  Mademoiselle 
Roguin  ended  by  thinking  that  the  Italian's  silence 
showed  a  grandeur  of  soul  above  all  praise;  and  her 
circle,  incited  by  her,  formed  a  scheme  for  humil- 
iating the  aristocracy  of  the  studio.  They  gained 
their  object  by  a  fire  of  sarcasms  which  humbled 
the  pride  of  the  right-hand  party.  The  arrival  of 
Madame  Servin  put  an  end  to  this  struggle  of  amour- 
propre.  With  the  cunning  that  always  accompanies 
spitefulness,  Amelie  had  noticed,  analyzed  and  put 
a  construction  upon  the  amazing  preoccupation 
which  prevented  Ginevra  hearing  the  acidly  polite 
dispute  of  which  she  was  the  subject. 

The  revenge  obtained  by  Mademoiselle  Roguin 
and  her  companions  over  Mademoiselle  Thirion  and 
her  group,  then  had  the  fatal  effect  of  causing  the 
young  ultras  to  inquire  into  the  reason  for  Ginevra 
di  Piombo's  silence.  The  beautiful  Italian  thus 
became  the  centre  of  all  looks,  and  was  watched  by 
her  friends  and  enemies  alike.  It  is  very  hard  to 
hide  the  slightest  emotion,  the  least  feeling  from 
fifteen  young  inquisitive  idle  girls,  whose  malice  and 
intelligence  ask  nothing  better  than  to  guess  secrets, 


260  THE  VENDETTA 

to  create  and  baffle  intrigues,  and  who  are  too  clever 
in  finding  different  interpretations  for  a  gesture,  a 
glance,  or  a  word  not  to  be  able  to  discover  its  true 
meaning.  Therefore,  Ginevra  di  Piombo's  secret 
was  soon  in  great  danger  of  becoming  known.  At 
this  moment,  Madame  Servin's  presence  caused 
an  interval  in  the  drama  which  was  being  secretly 
acted  at  the  bottom  of  these  young  hearts,  the  sen- 
timents, thoughts  and  progress  of  which  were  ex- 
pressed by  almost  allegorical  phrases,  by  malicious 
glances,  gestures,  and  even  by  silence,  often  more 
intelligible  than  words.  As  soon  as  Madame  Servin 
entered  the  studio,  her  eyes  fell  upon  the  door  near 
Ginevra.  Under  the  present  circumstances,  this 
look  was  not  lost.  If,  at  first,  none  of  the  pupils 
paid  any  attention  to  it,  later  on  Mademoiselle 
Thirion  remembered  it,  and  accounted  for  the  mis- 
trust, fear  and  mystery  which  at  that  time  gave  a 
certain  hunted  look  to  Madame  Servin's  eyes. 

"  Mesdemoiselles,"  she  said,  "Monsieur  Servin 
will  not  be  able  to  come  to-day." 

Then  she  complimented  each  young  lady,  while 
receiving  from  all  of  them  a  great  many  of  those 
feminine  caresses  which  are  shown  as  much  in  the 
voice  and  look  as  in  action.  She  quickly  reached 
Ginerva,  governed  by  an  anxiety  which  she  vainly 
strove  to  hide.  The  Italian  and  the  painter's  wife 
exchanged  a  friendly  nod,  and  both  remained  silent, 
the  one  painting,  the  other  looking  on.  The  sol- 
dier's breathing  could  easily  be  heard,  but  Madame 
Servin  appeared  not  to  notice  it;  and  so  good  was 


THE  VENDETTA  261 

her  dissimulation,  that  Ginevra  was  tempted  to 
accuse  her  of  voluntary  deafness.  Meanwhile,  the 
stranger  moved  in  his  bed.  The  Italian  looked 
earnestly  at  Madame  Servin,  who  then  said  to  her, 
without  her  face  undergoing  the  least  change: 

"Your  copy  is  as  beautiful  as  the  original.  If  I 
had  to  choose,  I  should  be  very  much  perplexed." 

"  Monsieur  Servin  has  not  trusted  this  mystery  to 
his  wife,"  thought  Ginevra,  who,  after  answering 
the  young  woman  by  a  gentle  smile  of  incredulity, 
hummed  a  can:^onetta  from  her  own  country  to  cover 
any  noise  that  the  prisoner  might  make. 

It  was  so  unusual  to  hear  the  studious  Italian  sing- 
ing, that  all  the  young  girls,  astonished,  looked  at 
her.  Later  on,  this  circumstance  served  as  a  proof 
to  the  charitable  suppositions  of  hatred.  Madame 
Servin  soon  left,  and  the  session  closed  without  any 
further  incident.  Ginevra  let  her  companions  go, 
and  seemed  to  wish  to  continue  working  for  a  long 
time  yet;  but  she  unconsciously  betrayed  her  desire 
to  remain  alone,  for,  whilst  the  pupils  were  preparing 
to  go,  she  cast  them  ill-disguised  looks  of  impatience. 
Mademoiselle  Thirion,  become  in  a  few  hours  a  cruel 
enemy  to  her  who  excelled  her  in  everything, 
guessed  by  some  instinct  of  hatred  that  her  rival's 
pretended  application  was  concealing  a  mystery. 
She  had  been  struck  more  than  once  by  the  atten- 
tive air  with  which  Ginevra  had  set  herself  to  listen 
to  a  noise  which  nobody  else  heard.  The  expression 
she  had  in  the  last  place  surprised  in  the  Italian's 
eyes  was  a  flash  of  light  to  her.     She  was  the  last 


262  THE  VENDETTA 

of  the  pupils  to  leave,  and  she  went  down  to  Madame 
Servin,  with  whom  she  talked  for  a  moment;  then 
pretending  to  have  forgotten  her  bag,  very  gently 
went  up  again  to  the  studio,  and  saw  Ginevra 
perched  upon  a  hastily  erected  scaffolding,  so  deeply 
lost  in  contemplation  of  the  military  stranger,  that 
she  did  not  hear  the  light  sound  of  her  companion's 
footstep.  It  is  true  that,  according  to  an  expression 
of  Walter  Scott's,  Amelie  was  treading  as  if  on  eggs; 
she  quickly  regained  her  studio  door  and  coughed. 
Ginevra  started,  turned  her  head,  saw  her  enemy, 
reddened,  hastened  to  unfasten  the  serge  to  throw 
her  off  the  scent,  and  got  down  after  having  tidied 
her  color  box.  She  left  the  studio  carrying  away 
engraved  in  her  memory  the  image  of  a  man's  head, 
as  graceful  as  that  of  Endymion,  a  masterpiece  of 
Girodet  that  she  had  copied  a  few  days  before. 

"  Proscribing  so  young  a  man!  Who  can  he  be? 
for  it  is  not  Marshal  Ney." 

These  sentences  are  the  most  simple  expression 
of  all  the  ideas  that  Ginevra  uttered  for  two  days. 
The  third  day,  in  spite  of  her  care  to  be  the  first  at 
the  studio,  she  found  Mademoiselle  Thirion,  who  had 
driven  there.  Ginevra  and  her  enemy  observed 
each  other  a  long  time;  but  they  assumed  impene- 
trable faces  toward  each  other.  Amelie  had  seen 
the  stranger's  charming  head;  but,  both  happily  and 
unhappily,  the  eagles  of  the  uniform  were  not  placed 
in  the  space  that  she  could  see  through  the  chink. 
She  was  then  lost  in  conjecture.  All  of  a  sudden 
Servin  arrived,  much  earlier  than  usual. 


THE   VENDETTA  263 

"Mademoiselle  Ginevra,"  he  said,  after  having 
glanced  round  the  studio,  "why  are  you  sitting 
there?  The  light  is  bad.  Come  nearer  to  these 
young  ladies,  and  pull  down  your  curtain  a  little." 

Then  he  seated  himself  beside  Laure,  whose  work 
earned  his  most  kindly  corrections. 

"Yes,  indeed,"  he  cried,  "here  is  a  beautifully 
done  head!     You  will  be  a  second  Ginevra." 

The  master  went  from  easel  to  easel,  scolding, 
flattering,  joking,  and  as  always,  causing  more  terror 
by  his  jests  than  by  his  reprim?nds.  The  Italian 
had  not  obeyed  the  professor's  observations,  and 
remained  at  her  post  with  the  firm  determination 
not  to  leave  it.  She  took  a  sheet  of  paper  and 
began  to  sketch  the  head  of  the  poor  recluse  in 
sepia.  A  work  conceived  with  passion  always  bears 
a  peculiar  stamp.  The  faculty  of  expressing  the 
translations  of  nature  or  thought  in  true  colors  con- 
stitutes genius,  and  passion  often  supplies  its  place. 
Therefore,  in  Ginevra's  case,  the  intuition  she  owed 
to  her  keenly  roused  imagination,  or  perhaps  neces- 
sity, the  mother  of  great  things,  lent  her  a  super- 
natural talent.  The  officer's  head  was  dashed  upon 
the  paper  in  the  midst  of  an  internal  thrilling  that 
she  attributed  to  fear,  and  in  which  a  physiologist 
would  have  recognized  the  fever  of  inspiration. 
From  time  to  time  she  glanced  furtively  at  her  com- 
panions, in  order  to  be  able  to  hide  the  wash  in  case 
of  any  indiscretion  on  their  part.  In  spite  of  her 
active  watchfulness,  there  came  a  moment  in  which 
she  did  not  perceive  the  eyeglass  that  her  merciless 


264  THE  VENDETTA 

enemy  was  pointing  at  the  mysterious  drawing, 
whilst  sheltering  herself  behind  a  big  portfolio. 
Mademoiselle  Thirion,  recognizing  the  refugee's 
face,  abruptly  raised  her  head,  and  Ginevra  drew 
the  sheet  of  paper  closer. 

"Why  did  you  stay  here  in  spite  of  my  advice, 
Mademoiselle?"  the  professor  gravely  asked 
Ginevra. 

The  pupil  quickly  turned  her  easel  in  such  a  way 
that  no  one  could  see  her  wash,  and  whilst  showing 
it  to  her  master,  anxiously  said: 

"  Do  you  not  also  think  that  this  is  a  better  light? 
ought  I  not  to  stay  here?" 

Servin  turned  pale.  As  nothing  escapes  the 
piercing  eye  of  hatred.  Mademoiselle  Thirion  made 
a  third,  so  to  speak,  in  the  emotion  which  disturbed 
both  master  and  pupil. 

"  You  are  right,"  said  Servin,  "  but  you  will  soon 
know  more  about  it  than  I  do,"  he  added  with  a 
forced  laugh. 

There  was  a  pause,  during  which  the  professor 
contemplated  the  officer's  head. 

"  This  is  a  masterpiece  worthy  of  Salvator  Rosa!" 
he  cried  with  an  artist's  vehemence. 

At  this  exclamation,  all  the  young  girls  rose,  and 
Mademoiselle  Thirion  ran  up  with  the  swiftness  of  a 
tiger  who  throws  itself  upon  its  prey.  At  this 
moment,  the  refugee,  wakened  by  the  noise^  moved. 
Ginevra  overturned  her  stool,  uttered  some  rather 
incoherent  sentences,  and  began  to  laugh;  but  she 
had   folded   the    portrait   and    thrown    it   into   her 


THE  VENDETTA  265 

portfolio  before  her  formidable  enemy  was  able  to 
see  it.  The  easel  was  surrounded;  Servin  loudly 
detailed  the  beauties  of  the  copy  that  his  favorite 
pupil  was  now  making,  and  everyone  was  taken  in 
by  this  stratagem,  except  Amelie,  who,  placing 
herself  behind  her  companions,  tried  to  open  the 
portfolio  in  which  she  had  seen  the  wash  laid. 
Ginevra  seized  the  portfolio  and  put  it  in  front  of 
her  without  a  word.  The  two  young  girls  then 
inspected  each  other  in  silence. 

"Come,  mesdemoiselles,  to  your  places,"  said 
Servin,  "if  you  wish  to  know  as  much  as  Made- 
moiselle di  Piombo,  you  must  not  always  talk  about 
fashions  or  balls,  and  trifle  as  you  do." 

When  all  the  young  girls  had  returned  to  their 
easels,  Servin  seated  himself  by  Ginevra. 

"  Was  it  not  as  well  that  this  mystery  should  be 
discovered  by  me  and  not  by  another.?"  said  the 
Italian  in  a  low  voice. 

"  Yes,"  answered  the  painter,  "  you  are  patriotic; 
but,  even  had  you  not  been,  I  should  still  have 
confided  it  to  you." 

The  master  and  pupil  understood  each  other,  and 
Ginevra  was  no  longer  afraid  to  ask: 

"Who  is  it?" 

"  Labedoyere's  intimate  friend,  the  one  who, 
next  to  the  unfortunate  colonel,  contributed  most  for 
the  union  of  the  seventh  with  the  grenadiers  of  the 
island  of  Elba.  He  was  a  major  in  the  guard,  and  is 
just  back  from  Waterloo." 

"  How  is  it  you  have  not  burnt  his  uniform,  and 


266  THE   VENDETTA 

his  shako,  and  given  him  bourgeois  clothes?"  asked 
Ginevra,  eagerly. 

"  They  are  going  to  bring  me  some  to-night." 

"  You  ought  to  have  shut  up  our  studio  for  a  few 
days." 

"  He  is  leaving." 

"Then  he  wants  to  die?"  said  the  young  girl; 
"  let  him  stay  with  you  during  the  first  stormy 
times.  Paris  is  the  only  place  in  France  where  one 
can  safely  hide  a  man.  He  is  a  friend  of  yours?" 
she  asked. 

"  No,  he  has  no  other  claim  upon  my  regard  than 
that  of  his  misfortune.  This  is  how  he  came  to  fall 
into  my  hands:  my  father-in-law,  who  had  returned 
to  the  service  during  this  campaign,  met  this  poor 
young  man,  and  very  cleverly  saved  him  from  the 
clutches  of  those  who  have  arrested  Labedoy^re. 
He  wanted  to  shelter  him,  the  madman!" 

"And  you  can  call  him  that!"  cried  Ginevra, 
looking  in  surprise  at  the  painter,  who  was  silent  for 
a  moment. 

"  My  father-in-law  is  too  much  spied  upon  to  be 
able  to  keep  anyone  at  his  house,"  he  replied,  "  so 
for  the  last  week  he  has  nightly  brought  him  here. 
I  had  hoped  to  conceal  him  from  all  eyes  by  putting 
him  in  this  corner,  the  only  place  in  the  house  where 
he  is  in  safety." 

"  If  I  can  be  of  any  use  to  you,  employ  me,"  said 
Ginevra,  "  1  know  the  Marechal  de  Feltre." 

"  Well,  we  shall  see,"  answered  the  painter. 

This  conversation  lasted  too  long  to  escape  the 


M.  SERVIN'S  STUDIO 


When  the  painter  and  Ginevra  believed  them- 
selves alone,  he  knocked,  in  a  certain  way  at  the 
attic  door,  which  at  once  turned  tip  on  its  rusty,  noisy 
hinges.  The  Italian  saw  a  young  man  appear,  tall 
and  well-made,  whose  imperial  imiform  made  her 
heart  beat.     The  officer  s  arm  was  in  a  sling. 


^Atf^^Ju:^  ¥SSg^  ^^.tfi^   iA 


R. .  ^t  Los  \ios ,  icn/jf!  _' 


THE  VENDETTA  267 

notice  of  all  the  young  girls.  Servin  left  Ginevra, 
returned  once  more  to  each  easel,  and  gave  such  a 
long  lesson,  that  he  was  still  on  the  staircase  when 
the  hour  at  which  his  pupils  usually  left,  sounded. 

"You  are  forgetting  your  bag.  Mademoiselle 
Thirion,"  cried  the  professor,  running  after  the 
young  girl,  who  was  stooping  to  the  work  of  a  spy 
to  gratify  her  hatred. 

The  inquisitive  pupil  came  to  fetch  her  bag  whilst 
showing  some  surprise  at  her  own  carelessness,  but 
Servin's  attention  was  an  additional  proof  to  her  of 
the  existence  of  an  undoubtedly  serious  mystery; 
she  had  already  imagined  all  that  must  exist,  and 
could  say  like  the  Abbe  Vertol:  "My  siege  is  laid." 
She  noisily  clattered  down  the  stairs  and  violently 
shut  the  door  leading  to  Servin's  apartment,  in 
order  to  give  the  belief  that  she  had  gone  out;  but 
she  softly  reascended,  and  stood  behind  the  studio 
door.  When  the  painter  and  Ginevra  believed 
themselves  alone,  he  knocked  in  a  certain  way  at 
the  attic  door,  which  at  once  turned  upon  its  rusty, 
noisy  hinges.  The  Italian  saw  a  young  man  appear, 
tall  and  well-made,  whose  imperial  uniform  made 
her  heart  beat.  The  officer's  arm  was  in  a  sling, 
and  the  pallor  of  his  complexion  implied  keen  suffer- 
ings.    Seeing  a  stranger,  he  started. 

Amelie,  who  could  see  nothing,  was  afraid  to 
remain  any  longer;  but  the  creaking  of  the  door 
being  sufficient  for  her,  she  went  away  noiselessly. 

"Do  not  be  afraid,"  said  the  painter  to  the 
officer,     "mademoiselle   is    the    daughter   of    the 


268  THE  VENDETTA 

Emperor's  most  faithful  friend,  the  Baron  de 
Piombo." 

The  young  soldier  had  no  further  doubt  about 
Ginevra's  patriotism,  after  having  seen  her. 

"Are  you  wounded?"  she  said. 

"Oh!  it  is  nothing,  mademoiselle,  the  wound  is 
closing." 

At  this  moment,  the  shrill,  piercing  voices  of  the 
newsboys  reached  the  studio:  "  Here  is  the  sentence 
of  death — "  All  three  started.  The  soldier  was  the 
first  to  hear  the  name  which  made  him  turn  pale. 

"  Labedoyere!"  he  said,  sinking  on  to  the  stool. 
They  looked  at  each  other  in  silence.  Drops  of 
perspiration  gathered  on  the  young  man's  livid 
forehead;  with  a  gesture  of  despair  he  clutched  his 
dark  clusters  of  hair,  and  leant  his  elbow  on  the 
edge  of  Ginevra's  easel. 

"After  all,"  he  said,  abruptly  rising,  "  Labe^ 
doyere  and  I  knew  what  we  were  doing.  We 
knew  what  fate  to  expect  after  triumph  as  after 
failure.     He  dies  for  his  cause,  and  I  hide — " 

He  was  hurrying  toward  the  studio  door;  but, 
swifter  still,  Ginevra  had  sprung  forward  and  barred 
the  way. 

"Will  that  re-establish  the  Emperor?"  she  said. 
"  Do  you  think  you  can  raise  this  giant  when  he 
himself  did  not  know  how  to  stand?" 

"What  do  you  imagine  is  to  become  of  me?" 
then  said  the  refugee,  addressing  the  two  friends 
that  chance  had  sent  him,  "  I  have  not  a  single 
relation  in  the  world.    Labedoyere  was  my  protector 


THE  VENDETTA  269 

and  friend,  I  am  alone;  to-morrow  I  may  perhaps  be 
banished  or  condemned.  I  have  never  had  any 
more  income  than  my  pay,  I  have  spent  my  last 
penny  in  coming  to  save  Labedoyere  from  his  fate 
and  in  trying  to  take  him  away;  so  death  is  a  neces- 
sity for  me.  When  one  has  made  up  his  mind  to 
die,  he  must  know  how  to  sell  his  head  to  the  exe- 
cutioner. I  was  thinking  just  now  that  the  life  of 
one  honest  man  was  well  worth  that  of  two  traitors, 
and  that  a  well -placed  stroke  of  a  dagger  might  give 
immortality." 

This  paroxysm  of  despair  frightened  the  painter 
and  Ginevra  herself,  though  she  thoroughly  under- 
stood the  young  man.  The  Italian  admired  the 
handsome  head  and  delicious  voice  whose  sweetness 
was  hardly  changed  by  the  accents  of  frenzy;  then 
she  suddenly  threw  balm  upon  all  the  wounds  of  the 
unfortunate  man: 

"  Monsieur,"  she  said,  "  as  to  your  pecuniary  dis- 
tress, let  me  offer  you  gold  from  my  savings.  My 
father  is  rich,  I  am  his  only  child,  he  loves  me,  and 
I  am  quite  sure  he  would  not  blame  me.  Do  not 
scruple  to  accept  it:  our  blessings  come  from  the 
Emperor,  and  we  have  not  a  farthing  that  is  not 
the  result  of  his  munificence.  Would  it  not  be  only 
grateful  to  oblige  one  of  his  faithful  soldiers.^*  So 
take  this  sum  with  as  little  ceremony  as  I  offer  it  to 
you.  It  is  only  money,"  she  added  in  a  scornful 
tone.     "  Now,  as  to  friends,  you  will  find  some!" 

At  that,  she  proudly  raised  her  head,  and  her 
eyes  shone  with  unwonted  lustre. 


270  THE  VENDETTA 

"  The  head  that  will  fall  to-morrow  before  a  dozen 
rifles  saves  yours,"  she  resumed.  "  Wait  until  the 
storm  is  over,  and  you  can  go  and  seek  service 
abroad  if  they  do  not  forget  you;  or  in  the  French 
army  if  they  do  forget  you." 

In  the  consolation  given  by  a  woman  there  always 
exists  something  motherly,  shrewd  and  complete. 
But,  when  to  these  words  of  peace  and  hope  are 
added  graceful  gestures,  that  eloquence  of  tone  that 
comes  from  the  heart,  and  above  all  when  the  bene- 
factress is  beautiful,  it  is  difficult  for  a  young  man 
to  resist.  The  refugee  inhaled  love  in  all  his  senses. 
A  light  pink  color  tinged  his  white  cheeks,  his  eyes 
lost  a  little  of  the  melancholy  that  dimmed  them, 
and  he  said  in  a  peculiar  tone  of  voice: 

"You  are  an  angel  of  goodness!  But  Labe- 
doyere,"  he  added,  "  Labedoyere!" 

At  this  cry,  they  all  three  looked  at  each  other  in 
silence,  and  understood  each  other.  They  were  no 
longer  friends  of  twenty  minutes,  but  twenty  years. 

"  My  dear  fellow,"  replied  Servin,  "  can  you  save 
him?" 

"  I  can  avenge  him." 

Ginevra  started;  although  the  stranger  was  hand- 
some, his  appearance  had  in  no  way  moved  the 
young  girl;  the  gentle  pity  that  women  find  in  their 
hearts  for  miseries  that  have  nothing  ignoble  about 
them,  had  stifled  all  other  feelings  in  Ginevra;  but 
to  hear  a  cry  of  vengeance,  to  meet  in  this  refugee 
an  Italian  spirit,  devotion  for  Napoleon,  Corsican 
generosity! — It  was   too  much  for   her;    she   then 


THE  VENDETTA  27I 

contemplated  the  officer  with  a  reverential  emotion 
which  deeply  disturbed  her  heart.  It  was  the  first 
time  any  man  had  caused  her  so  keen  a  sensation. 
Like  all  women,  she  delighted  in  placing  the 
stranger's  soul  on  a  level  with  the  distinguished 
beauty  of  his  features,  and  with  the  happy  propor- 
tions of  his  figure  which,  as  an  artist,  she  admired. 
Led  by  chance  from  curiosity  to  pity,  from  pity  to  a 
powerful  interest,  from  that  interest  she  arrived  at 
such  deep  feelings  that  she  thought  it  dangerous  to 
remain  there  any  longer. 

"Good-bye  until  to-morrow,"  she  said,  leaving 
the  officer  the  sweetest  of  her  smiles  as  consolation. 
Seeing  this  smile,  which  threw  a  new  light  upon 
Ginevra's  face,  the  stranger  forgot  all  for  a  moment. 

"To-morrow,"  he  replied  sadly,  "to-morrow, 
Labedoy^re — " 

Ginevra  turned,  put  her  finger  upon  her  lips,  and 
looked  at  him  as  if  to  say,  "Calm  yourself;  be 
prudent." 

Then  the  young  man  cried: 

"O  Dio!  che  non  vorrei  vivere  dopo  averla 
veduta! — O  God!  who  would  not  wish  to  live  after 
having  seen  her!" 

The  peculiar  accent  with  which  he  uttered  these 
words  made  Ginevra  thrill. 

"You  are  Corsican?"  she  cried,  coming  back  to 
him,  her  heart  beating  joyfully. 

"  I  was  born  in  Corsica,"  he  replied;  "  but  I  was 
taken  to  Genoa  when  very  young;  and,  as  soon  as 
I  reached  the  age  for  military  service.  I  enlisted." 


272  THE  VENDETTA 

The  stranger's  beauty,  the  extraordinary  charm 
that  his  attachment  to  the  Emperor  lent  him,  his 
wound,  his  misfortune,  even  his  danger  faded  from 
Ginevra's  eyes,  or  rather  all  were  merged  into  a 
single  new,  delicious  feeling.  This  refugee  was  a 
child  of  Corsica,  he  spoke  the  beloved  language! 
For  a  moment  the  young  girl  remained  motionless, 
held  by  a  magic  sensation;  before  her  eyes  was  a 
living  picture  vividly  colored  by  combined  human 
feeling  and  accident;  at  Servin's  bidding,  the  officer 
had  seated  himself  on  a  divan,  the  painter  had 
loosened  the  sling  which  held  his  guest's  arm,  and 
he  was  busily  undoing  the  bandage  in  order  to  dress 
the  wound.  Ginevra  shivered  at  sight  of  the  long, 
deep  sore  made  by  a  sword  blade  on  the  young 
man's  fore-arm,  and  a  groan  burst  from  her.  The 
stranger  lifted  his  head  toward  her  and  began  to 
smile.  There  was  something  touching  and  which 
went  to  the  heart  in  the  care  with  which  Servin 
was  taking  off  the  bandage  and  feeling  the  bruised 
flesh;  whilst  the  wounded  man's  face,  although  pale 
and  sickly,  expressed  at  sight  of  the  young  girl, 
more  pleasure  than  suffering.  An  artist  would  have 
involuntarily  admired  this  antithesis  of  feelings,  and 
the  contrasts  produced  by  the  whiteness  of  the 
linen,  the  nakedness  of  the  arm,  against  the  officer's 
blue  and  red  uniform.  At  this  moment,  a  dusky 
twilight  enshrouded  the  studio;  but  a  last  ray  of 
sunlight  lit  up  the  spot  where  the  refugee  was  sit- 
ting, so  that  his  pale,  noble  face,  black  hair,  and  his 
garments,  were  flooded  with  light.    The  superstitious 


THE  VENDETTA  273 

Italian  took  this  simple  effect  for  a  happy  omen. 
Thus  the  stranger  resembled  a  heavenly  messenger 
who  spoke  her  native  tongue  to  her,  who  placed  her 
under  the  spell  of  her  childhood's  memories,  whilst 
in  her  heart  was  growing  a  feeling  as  sweet  and 
pure  as  her  early  infancy.  For  a  brief  moment,  she 
stood  dreaming  and  as  if  sunk  in  infinite  thought; 
then  she  blushed  at  showing  her  preoccupation, 
exchanged  a  gentle,  swift  look  with  the  refugee,  and 
ran  away  seeing  him  always  before  her  eyes. 


18 


The  next  day,  as  there  was  no  class,  Ginevra 
came  to  the  studio,  and  the  prisoner  was  able  to 
stay  by  his  compatriot;  Servin,  who  had  a  sketch  to 
finish,  allowed  the  recluse  to  remain  there  whilst 
acting  as  mentor  to  the  two  young  people,  who 
often  conversed  in  Corsican,  The  poor  soldier 
related  his  sufferings  during  the  defeat  at  Moscow, 
for  he  found  himself,  at  nineteen,  at  the  passage  of 
the  Beresina,  the  only  one  of  his  regiment  after 
having  lost  amongst  his  comrades  the  only  men  who 
could  interest  themselves  in  an  orphan.  With  fiery 
touch  he  depicted  the  great  disaster  of  Waterloo. 
His  voice  was  music  to  the  Italian.  Brought  up  in 
Corsican  ways,  Ginevra  was  in  some  degree  a 
child  of  nature,  she  was  unacquainted  with  false- 
hood and  yielded  herself  unreservedly  to  her 
impressions;  she  acknowledged  them,  or  rather, 
allowed  them  to  be  guessed  without  any  exercise  of 
the  petty,  calculating  coquetry  of  the  young  girls  of 
Paris.  During  this  day,  she  stopped  more  than  once, 
her  palette  in  one  hand,  her  brush  in  the  other, 
without  moistening  it  with  the  colors  on  the  palette; 
with  eyes  fastened  on  the  officer  and  with  slightly 
parted  lips,  she  listened,  always  in  readiness  to 
make  a  stroke  of  the  brush  which  she  never  made. 
She  did  not  wonder  at  finding  so  much  sweetness  in 
the  young  man's  eyes,  for  she  felt  her  own  growing 

(275) 


276  THE  VENDETTA 

soft  in  spite  of  lier  determination  to  keep  them 
severe  and  calm.  Then,  after  that,  she  would  paint 
with  particular  application  for  hours  together,  with- 
out raising  her  head,  because  he  was  there,  beside 
her,  watching  her  at  work.  The  first  time  that  he 
came  to  sit  near  to  look  at  her  in  silence,  she  said  to 
him  in  a  voice  of  emotion,  after  a  long  pause: 

"  Then  it  amuses  you  to  see  me  painting?" 

That  day,  she  learnt  that  his  name  was  Luigi. 
Before  separating,  they  agreed  that  on  studio  days, 
if  any  important  political  event  had  happened, 
Ginevra  should  inform  of  it  by  singing  in  a  low 
voice  certain  Italian  airs. 

The  next  day,  Mademoiselle  Thirion  secretly  told 
all  her  companions  that  Ginevra  di  Piombo  was 
loved  by  a  young  man  who  came,  during  lesson 
hours,  and  settled  himself  in  the  dark  closet  in  the 
studio. 

"You,  who  take  her  part,"  she  said  to  Made- 
moiselle Roguin,  "  watch  her  well,  and  you  will  see 
how  she  spends  her  time." 

Accordingly,  Ginevra  was  then  observed  with 
diabolical  attention.  They  listened  to  her  songs, 
and  watched  her  looks.  Just  when  she  thought 
nobody  saw  her,  a  dozen  eyes  were  immediately 
fixed  upon  her.  Thus  forewarned,  these  young  girls 
interpreted  aright  the  agitations  flitting  across  the 
Italian's  brilliant  face,  her  actions,  the  peculiar  tone 
of  her  humming,  and  the  intentness  of  the  look  with 
which  they  saw  her  listening  to  the  indistinct  sounds 
which  she  alone  could  hear  through  the  partition. 


THE  VENDETTA  277 

At  the  end  of  a  week,  only  one  of  Servin's  fifteen 
pupils,  Laure,  had  resisted  her  inclination  to  ex- 
amine Louis  through  the  chink  in  the  partition;  and 
by  an  instinct  of  weakness,  she  still  defended  the 
beautiful  Corsican;  Mademoiselle  Roguin  wanted  to 
make  her  stay  on  the  stairs  at  the  hour  for  leaving 
in  order  to  prove  to  her  the  intimacy  between 
Ginevra  and  the  handsome  young  man  by  surprising 
them  together;  but  she  refused  to  stoop  to  an 
espionage  that  curiosity  could  not  justify,  and  she 
became  an  object  of  universal  disapproval.  Very 
soon  the  daughter  of  the  usher  in  the  king's  cabinet 
found  it  inconvenient  to  attend  the  studio  of  a  painter 
whose  opinions  were  tinged  by  patriotism  or  Bona- 
partism,  which,  at  that  time,  seemed  to  be  one  and 
the  same  thing;  so  she  came  no  more  to  Servin's. 
If  Amelie  forgot  Ginevra,  the  evil  she  had  sown 
bore  its  fruits.  Gradually,  through  accident,  chat- 
tering or  prudishness,  all  the  other  young  students 
told  their  mothers  of  the  strange  intrigue  going  on  at 
the  studio.  One  day,  Mathilde  Roguin  did  not 
come;  the  next  lesson,  it  was  another  young  girl; 
finally  three  or  four  young  ladies,  who  had  remained 
to  the  last,  came  no  more.  Ginevra  and  her  little 
friend  Mademoiselle  Laure,  were  for  two  or  three 
days  the  only  occupants  of  the  deserted  studio. 
The  Italian  did  not  notice  her  desertion,  and  did  not 
even  enquire  into  the  reasons  for  her  companions' 
absence.  Since  she  had  invented  means  of  com- 
municating with  Louis,  she  lived  at  the  studio  as  if 
in  a  delicious   retreat,  alone   in   the   midst  of  the 


278  THE  VENDETTA 

world,  thinking  only  of  the  officer  and  the  dangers 
which  threatened  him.  This  young  girl,  although  a 
sincere  admirer  of  those  noble  characters  who  refuse 
to  betray  their  political  faith,  pressed  Louis  to 
promptly  submit  to  the  royal  authority,  in  order  to 
keep  him  in  France,  and  Louis  would  not  submit  so 
as  to  remain  in  his  hiding-place. 

If  passions  only  spring  and  grow  under  the 
influence  of  romantic  causes,  never  were  there  so 
many  circumstances  conspiring  to  unite  two  beings 
by  the  same  feeling.  Ginevra's  friendship  for  Louis 
and  Louis's  for  her  thus  made  more  progress  in  one 
month  than  society  friendship  would  have  made  in 
ten  years  in  a  drawing-room.  Is  not  adversity  the 
touchstone  of  character .-'  Ginevra  was  therefore 
easily  able  to  know  and  appreciate  Louis  and  they 
soon  felt  a  mutual  esteem  for  one  another.  Older 
than  Louis,  Ginevra  found  a  certain  sweetness  in 
being  courted  by  a  young  man  who  was  already  so 
great,  so  tried  by  fate,  and  in  whom  a  man's  ex- 
perience was  combined  with  the  gifts  of  youth.  On 
his  side,  Louis  felt  unutterable  pleasure  in  allowing 
a  young  girl  of  twenty-five  to  apparently  protect 
him.  Was  it  not  a  proof  of  love?  The  union  of 
gentleness  and  pride,  of  strength  and  weakness  was 
an  irresistible  attraction  in  Ginevra;  so  Louis  was 
completely  subjugated  by  her.  In  short,  they 
already  loved  each  other  so  deeply,  that  they  did 
not  need  to  deny  or  confess  it  to  themselves. 

One  day,  towards  evening,  Ginevra  heard  the 
signal  agreed  upon;    Louis  was  tapping  upon   the 


THE  VENDETTA  279 

woodwork  with  a  pin  in  such  a  way  as  to  produce 
no  more  noise  than  a  spider  spinning  its  web,  and 
thus  asked  if  he  might  come  out  of  his  retreat.  She 
cast  a  look  round  the  studio,  did  not  see  little  Laure, 
and  answered  the  signal;  but,  on  opening  the  door, 
Louis  perceived  the  pupil,  and  retired  hastily. 
Surprised,  Ginevra  looked  round,  saw  Laure,  and 
said  to  her  whilst  going  to  her  easel: 

"  You  stay  very  late,  dear.  And  yet  this  head 
seems  to  me  finished,  there  is  only  one  reflection  to 
indicate  on  the  top  of  this  lock  of  hair." 

"  You  would  be  very  good,"  said  Laure  in  a  voice 
of  emotion,  "  if  you  would  correct  this  copy  for  me, 
I  could  then  keep  something  of  yours — " 

"I  will  gladly,"  resumed  Ginevra,  feeling  sure 
in  this  way  of  being  able  to  send  her  away.  "  1 
thought,"  she  answered,  giving  light  touches  with 
the  brush,  "  that  your  home  was  a  long  way  from 
the  studio?" 

"  Oh!  Ginevra,  I  am  going,  and  for  ever,"  cried 
the  young  girl,  with  a  sad  face. 

"You  are  leaving  Monsieur  Servin?"  asked  the 
Italian,  without  seeming  as  much  affected  by  these 
words  as  she  would  have  been  a  month  before. 

"Have  you  not  noticed  then,  Ginevra,  that  for 
some  time,  you  and  I  are  the  only  ones  here?" 

"  That's  true,"  answered  Ginevra,  as  if  suddenly 
struck  by  some  recollection,  "are  the  young  ladies  ill, 
married,  or  are  their  fathers  all  serving  at  the  Castle  ? ' ' 

"They  have  all  left  Monsieur  Servin,"  replied 
Laure. 


280  THE  VENDETTA 

"And  why?" 

"  Because  of  you,  Ginevra." 

"  Of  me!"  repeated  the  Corsican  girl  rising,  with 
lowering  brow,  a  fierce  look  and  flashing  eyes. 

"  Oh!  do  not  be  angry,  dear  Ginevra,"  mourn- 
fully cried  Laure.  "  But  my  mother  too  wishes  me 
to  leave  the  studio.  All  the  young  ladies  said  that 
you  were  carrying  on  an  intrigue,  that  Monsieur 
Servin  allowed  a  young  man  who  loved  you  to 
remain  in  the  dark  closet;  I  have  never  believed 
these  slanders  and  have  said  nothing  to  my  mother. 
Yesterday  evening,  Madame  Roguin  met  my  mother 
at  a  ball  and  asked  her  if  she  still  sent  me  here.  On 
my  mother  replying  in  the  affirmative  she  repeated 
these  young  ladies'  stories.  Mama  gave  me  a  good 
scolding,  she  declared  that  I  must  know  of  all  this, 
that,  in  not  speaking  of  it  to  her  I  was  wanting  in 
the  confidence  existing  between  mother  and  daugh- 
ter. Oh!  dear  Ginevra!  I,  who  have  looked  upon 
you  as  my  model,  how  sorry  I  am  not  to  be  able  to 
remain  your  companion — ." 

"  We  shall  meet  again  in  life;  young  girls 
marry — ,"  said  Ginevra. 

"  When  they  are  rich,"  replied  Laure. 

"  Come  and  see  me,  my  father  is  wealthy." 

"  Ginevra,"  rejoined  Laure  tenderly,  "  Madame 
Roguin  and  my  mother  are  coming  to-morrow  to  re- 
proach Monsieur  Servin;  at  least,  let  him  be  warned." 

Had  a  thunderbolt  fallen  in  front  of  Ginevra  she 
could  not  have  been  more  astonished  at  this  dis- 
closure. 


THE  VENDETTA  28 I 

"  What  did  it  matter  to  them?"  she  said  naively. 

"  Everyone  thinks  it  is  very  wrong.  Mama  says 
it  is  against  morality — " 

"  And  you,  Laure,  what  do  you  think  of  it.?" 

The  young  girl  looked  at  Ginevra,  their  thoughts 
mingled,  Laure  no  longer  controlled  her  tears,  threw 
her  arms  round  her  friend's  neck  and  kissed  her. 
At  this  moment,  Servin  arrived. 

"Mademoiselle  Ginevra,"  he  said  enthusias- 
tically, "  I  have  finished  my  picture,  it  is  being 
varnished —  What  is  the  m.atter  with  you?  It 
seems  that  all  these  young  ladies  are  taking  holidays, 
or  are  in  the  country?" 

Laure  dried  her  tears,  bowed  to  Servin  and  with- 
drew. 

"  The  studio  has  been  deserted  for  several  days," 
said  Ginevra,  "and  the  girls  are  not  coming  back," 

"Bah  ?"— 

"Oh!  you  need  not  laugh,"  replied  Ginevra, 
"listen:  I  am  the  involuntary  cause  of  the  loss  of 
your  reputation." 

The  artist  began  to  smile,  and  said,  interrupting  his 
pupil: 

"My  reputation?  But — in  a  few  days — my  picture 
will  be  exhibited." 

"It  is  no  question  of  your  talent,"  said  the 
Italian,  "it  concerns  your  morality.  These  girls 
have  given  out  that  Louis  is  shut  up  here,  that  you 
countenanced — our  love — " 

"There  is  some  truth  in  that,  mademoiselle," 
replied  the  professor.     "  The  mothers  of  these  girls 


282  THE  VENDETTA 

are  prudes,"  he  resumed.  "  Had  they  come  to  see 
me,  all  might  have  been  explained.  But  why 
should  I  care  for  all  that?  Life  is  too  short!" 

And  the  painter  snapped  his  fingers  above  his  head. 

Louis,  who  had  heard  part  of  this  conversation, 
hastened  up  directly. 

"You  will  lose  all  your  pupils,"  he  cried,  "  and 
I  shall  have  ruined  you!" 

The  artist  took  Louis's  and  Ginevra's  hands,  and 
joined  them. 

"You  will  marry,  children?"  he  asked  with 
touching  kindness. 

They  both  lowered  their  eyes,  and  their  silence 
was  the  first  avowal  they  made  to  each  other, 

"  Well,"  resumed  Servin,  "you  will  be  happy, 
will  you  not?  Can  anything  pay  for  the  happiness 
of  two  such  beings?" 

"  I  am  rich,"  said  Ginevra,  "  and  you  will  allow 
me  to  indemnify  you — " 

"  Indemnify! — "cried  Servin,  "  when  it  becomes 
known  that  I  was  the  victim  of  the  slanders  of  two 
or  three  silly  women,  and  that  I  was  hiding  a 
refugee:  why,  all  the  Liberals  in  Paris  will  send  me 
their  daughters!  I  may  then  be  your  debtor — " 

Louis  squeezed  his  protector's  hand,  unable  to 
utter  a  word;  but  he  finally  said  in  a  voice  of 
emotion: 

"  Then  I  shall  owe  all  my  happiness  to  you!" 

"  Be  happy,  I  join  you  together,"  said  the  painter 
with  comical  unction,  as  he  laid  his  hands  upon  the 
heads  of  the  two  lovers. 


THE  VENDETTA  283 

This  artistical  joke  put  an  end  to  their  emotion. 
All  three  looked  at  one  another  laughing. 

The  Italian  grasped  Louis  tightly  by  the  hand 
with  a  simplicity  of  action  worthy  the  customs  of 
her  native  country. 

"  Ah!  my  dear  children,"  resumed  Servin,  "  you 
think  now  that  all  goes  beautifully.  Well,  you  are 
mistaken." 

The  two  lovers  gazed  at  each  other  in  astonish- 
ment, 

"  Don't  be  afraid,  I  am  the  only  one  embarrassed 
by  your  tricks!  Madame  Servin  is  a  little  strait-laced, 
and,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I  do  not  know  how  we 
are  going  to  settle  it  with  her." 

"  Good  gracious!  I  was  forgetting!"  cried  Ginevra. 
**  To-morrow,  Madame  Roguin  and  Laure's  mother 
are  to  come  and — " 

"  So  I  hear,"  said  the  painter,  interrupting  her. 

"  But  you  can  justify  yourself,"  replied  the  young 
girl  with  a  proud  toss  of  the  head.  "  Monsieur 
Louis,"  she  said  turning  towards  him  and  looking  at 
him  slyly,  "  ought  to  feel  no  more  antipathy  for  the 
royal  government? — Well,"  she  resumed  after  see- 
ing him  smile,  "to-morrow  morning  I  shall  send  a 
petition  to  one  of  the  most  influential  persons  in  the 
War  Office,  to  a  man  who  can  refuse  nothing  to  the 
daughter  of  the  Baron  de  Piombo.  We  will  obtain  a 
tacit  pardon  for  Commander  Louis,  for  they  would  not 
recognize  your  rank  as  major. — And  you,"  she  added, 
addressing  Servin,  "can  confound  the  mothers  of 
my  charitable  companions  by  telling  them  the  truth." 


284  THE  VENDETTA 

"You  are  an  angel!"  cried  Servin. 

Whilst  this  scene  was  taking  place  at  the  studio, 
Ginevra's  father  and  mother  were  growing  impatient 
at  her  non-arrival. 

"  It  is  six  o'clock,  and  Ginevra  is  not  back  yet," 
cried  Bartolomeo. 

"  She  has  never  come  in  so  late,"  replied  Piombo's 
wife. 

The  two  old  people  looked  at  each  other  with  all 
the  signs  of  unusual  anxiety.  Too  much  perturbed 
to  remain  in  his  place,  Bartolomeo  rose,  and  for  a 
man  of  seventy-seveji,  walked  twice  round  his  salon 
actively  enough.  Thanks  to  his  robust  constitution, 
he  had  undergone  little  change  since  the  day  of  his 
arrival  in  Paris,  and,  in  spite  of  his  height,  was  still 
upright.  His  hair,  grown  white  and  thin,  left  bare 
a  large  protuberant  skull  which  gave  a  great  idea  of 
his  character  and  decision.  His  face,  scored  with 
deep  wrinkles,  had  developed  tremendously,  and 
retained  that  pallor  which  compels  veneration. 

The  vehemence  of  passion  still  prevailed  in  the 
supernatural  gleam  of  his  eyes,  the  brows  of  which 
had  not  entirely  whitened  and  still  preserved  their 
terrible  mobility.  The  appearance  of  this  head  was 
severe,  but  one  could  see  that  Bartolomeo  had  the 
right  to  be  so.  Only  his  wife  and  child  knew  his 
kindness  and  gentleness.  On  duty  or  before 
strangers,  he  never  laid  aside  the  stateliness  that 
age  had  imparted  to  his  person,  and  the  habit  of 
knitting  his  heavy  eyebrows,  of  contracting  the 
wrinkles  in  his  face,  of  investing  his  glance  with 


THE  VENDETTA  285 

Napoleonic  fixity,  gave  frigidity  to  his  manner. 
During  the  course  of  his  political  life,  he  had  been 
so  universally  feared,  that  he  passed  as  unsociable; 
but  it  is  not  difficult  to  account  for  this  reputation. 
Piombo's  life,  morality  and  fidelity  were  a  reproach 
to  most  of  the  courtiers.  In  spite  of  the  delicate 
missions  entrusted  to  his  discretion,  and  which  for 
any  other  man  would  have  been  lucrative,  he  did 
not  possess  more  than  thirty  thousand  francs  income 
from  the  Funds.  If  one  thinks  of  the  cheapness  of 
the  public  securities  under  the  Empire,  of  Napoleon's 
liberality  to  those  of  his  faithful  servants  who  knew 
how  to  speak,  it  is  easy  to  see  that  the  Baron  de 
Piombo  was  a  man  of  strict  honesty;  he  only  owed 
his  plumage  of  baron  to  the  necessity  Napoleon  was 
under  of  giving  him  a  title  in  sending  him  to  a  for- 
eign Court.  Bartolomeo  had  always  professed 
implacable  hatred  for  the  traitors  with  which  Na- 
poleon surrounded  himself  in  the  belief  that  he  could 
win  them  by  means  of  victories.  It  was  he,  they 
said,  who  took  three  steps  toward  the  Emperor's 
closet  door,  after  having  advised  him  to  get  rid  of 
three  men  in  France,  the  eve  of  the  day  on  which 
he  left  upon  his  famous  and  wonderful  campaign 
of  1814.  Since  the  second  return  of  the  Bourbons, 
Bartolomeo  no  longer  wore  the  decoration  of  the 
Legion  of  Honor.  Never  did  any  man  present  a 
more  beautiful  picture  of  those  old  Republicans,  in- 
corruptible friends  of  the  Empire,  who  remained  like 
living  ruins  of  the  two  most  energetic  governments 
that  the  world  has  ever  known.     If  the  Baron  de 


286  THE  VENDETTA 

Piombo  was  disliked  by  some  of  the  courtiers,  he 
had  friends  in  the  Darus,  the  Drouots,  the  Carnots. 
So,  as  to  the  remainder  of  the  politicians,  after 
Waterloo,  he  cared  about  them  as  little  as  the 
whiffs  of  smoke  he  drew  from  his  cigar. 

By  means  of  the  somewhat  small  sum  that  Ma- 
dame, the  Emperor's  mother,  had  given  him  for  his 
property  in  Corsica,  Bartolomeo  di  Piombo  had 
acquired  the  old  mansion  of  Portenduere,  to  which 
he  made  no  alteration.  Almost  always  lodged  at 
the  expense  of  the  government,  he  had  only  lived 
in  this  house  since  the  catastrophe  at  Fontainebleau. 
According  to  the  habit  of  simple  and  highly  virtuous 
people,  the  baron  and  his  wife  set  no  value  on  out- 
side show;  their  furniture  came  from  the  old  furnish- 
ings in  the  house.  The  great  high-storied  rooms, 
dark  and  bare,  of  this  residence,  the  large  mirrors 
set  in  old,  almost  black,  gilt  frames,  and  the  Louis 
XlVth.  furniture,  were  in  keeping  with  Bartolomeo 
and  his  wife,  both  persons  worthy  of  antiquity. 
Under  the  Empire  and  during  the  Hundred  Days, 
whilst  exercising  functions  that  were  richly  remun- 
erated, the  old  Corsican  had  had  a  large  household, 
rather  with  the  object  of  doing  credit  to  his  position 
than  with  the  design  of  making  himself  conspicuous. 
His  life  and  that  of  his  wife  were  so  frugal,  and  so 
quiet,  that  their  modest  fortune  sufficed  for  their 
needs.  To  them,  their  daughter  Ginevra  was  worth 
all  the  riches  in  the  world.  So,  when,  in  May,  1814, 
the  Baron  de  Piombo  left  his  post,  dismissed  his 
suite  and  closed  his  stable-door,  Ginevra,  as  simple 


THE  VENDETTA  287 

and  unostentatious  as  her  parents,  had  not  a  single 
regret;  following  the  example  of  great  minds,  she 
luxuriated  only  in  the  strength  of  her  feelings,  as 
she  founded  her  happiness  on  solitude  and  work. 
Then  these  three  beings  loved  each  other  too  much 
for  the  exteriors  of  existence  to  have  any  value  in 
their  eyes.  Often,  and  especially  since  Napoleon's 
second  and  terrible  downfall,  Bartolomeo  and  his 
wife  would  spend  delicious  evenings  listening  to 
Ginevra  playing  or  singing.  Their  daughter's  pres- 
ence, or  least  word,  gave  them  an  immense  secret 
pleasure;  their  eyes  followed  her  with  tender 
anxiety,  they  heard  her  step  in  the  yard,  however 
light  it  might  be.  Like  lovers,  they  all  three  knew 
how  to  remain  silent  for  hours  together,  in  this  way 
hearing  the  eloquence  of  their  souls  much  better 
than  by  words.  This  deep  feeling,  which  was  life 
itself  to  the  two  old  people,  animated  all  their 
thoughts.  There  were  not  three  existences,  but 
one  alone,  which,  like  a  flame  on  the  hearth,  divided 
itself  into  three  tongues  of  fire.  If  sometimes  the 
memory  of  Napoleon's  kindnesses  and  misfortune,  or 
the  politics  of  the  moment,  triumphed  over  the  con- 
stant solicitude  of  the  two  old  people,  they  could 
talk  of  them  without  breaking  the  community  of 
their  thoughts:  for  did  not  Ginevra  share  in  their 
political  passions?  What  more  natural  than  the 
ardor  with  which  they  fled  to  the  heart  of  their  only 
child?  Up  till  then,  the  Baron  de  Piombo  had  been 
absorbed  in  occupations  of  a  public  life;  but,  in 
giving   up   his   employment,  the    Corsican   had   to 


288  THE  VENDETTA 

throw  his  energy  into  the  last  sentiment  remaining 
to  him;  then,  apart  from  the  ties  which  unite  a 
father  and  mother  to  their  daughter,  there  was  per- 
haps, unknown  to  these  three  despotic  souls,  a 
powerful  reason  for  the  fanaticism  of  their  mutual 
passion;  they  loved  each  other  equally,  Ginevra's 
whole  heart  belonged  to  her  father,  as  did  Piombo's 
to  her;  in  short,  if  it  be  true  that  we  cling  to  each 
other  through  our  faults  rather  than  through  our 
qualities,  then  Ginevra  responded  marvelously  to  all 
her  father's  passions.  From  this  proceeded  the  only 
imperfection  in  this  triple  life.  Ginevra  was  head- 
strong in  will,  vindictive  and  hasty  as  Bartolomeo 
had  been  in  his  youth.  The  Corsican  delighted  in 
developing  these  savage  feelings  in  his  daughter's 
heart,  just  as  a  lion  teaches  its  cubs  to  pounce  upon 
their  prey.  But  as  this  apprenticeship  of  vengeance, 
in  some  degree,  could  only  be  gone  through  at  the 
paternal  home,  Ginevra  forgave  her  father  nothing, 
and  he  was  obliged  to  yield  to  her.  Piombo  looked 
upon  these  mimic  quarrels  as  mere  child's  play;  but 
the  child  contracted  the  habit  of  ruling  her  parents. 
In  the  middle  of  these  storms  that  Bartolomeo  loved 
to  excite,  one  tender  word,  one  look,  was  enough  to 
calm  their  wrathful  souls,  and  they  were  never  so 
near  a  kiss  as  when  they  threatened  each  other. 
And  yet,  for  about  five  years,  Ginevra,  grown  wiser 
than  her  father,  constantly  avoided  this  sort  of  scene. 
Her  faithfulness  and  devotion  and  the  love  that 
triumphed  over  all  her  thoughts,  and  her  admirable 
good  sense  had  overcome  her  fits  of  rage;  but  there 


THE  VENDETTA  289 

had  resulted  none  the  less  a  great  evil;  Ginevra 
lived  with  her  father  and  mother  on  a  footing  of 
equality  which  is  always  fatal.  To  complete  the 
account  of  all  the  changes  that  had  befallen  these 
three  persons  since  their  arrival  in  Paris,  Piombo 
and  his  wife,  both  uneducated  people,  had  allowed 
Ginevra  to  study  according  to  her  fancy.  Following 
her  youthful  whims,  she  had  learned  everything  and 
dropped  everything,  taking  up  and  leaving  each  idea 
in  turn,  until  painting  became  her  ruling  passion; 
she  would  have  been  perfect,  had  her  mother  been 
capable  of  directing  her  studies,  enlightening  her 
and  harmonizing  the  gifts  of  nature:  her  faults  arose 
from  the  fatal  education  that  the  old  Corsican  had 
delighted  in  giving  her. 

After  treading  the  creaking  boards  under  foot  for 
a  long  time,  the  old  man  rang;  a  servant  appeared. 

"Go  and  meet  Mademoiselle  Ginevra,"  he  said. 

"  I  have  always  regretted  that  we  no  longer  had 
a  carriage  for  her,"  observed  the  baroness. 

"She  would  not  have  one,"  replied  Piombo, 
looking  at  his  wife,  who,  inured  for  forty  years  to 
her  role  of  submission,  lowered  her  eyes. 

Already  seventy,  tall,  withered,  pale  and  wrinkled, 
the  baroness  was  exactly  like  those  old  women  that 
Schnetz  puts  in  the  Italian  scenes  in  his  genre 
paintings;  she  was  habitually  so  silent,  that  one 
might  have  taken  her  for  another  Madame  Shandy; 
but  a  word,  a  look,  a  gesture  would  betray  that  her 
feelings  had  preserved  the  vigor  and  freshness  of 
youth.  Her  toilette,  devoid  of  coquetry,  was  often 
19 


290  THE  VENDETTA 

lacking  in  taste.  She  usually  remained  passive, 
sunk  in  an  easy-chair,  like  a  Sultana  Valide,  either 
waiting  for  or  admiring  Ginevra,  her  pride  and  her 
life.  It  seemed  as  if  her  daughter's  beauty,  toilette 
and  grace  had  become  her  own.  All  was  well  with 
her  when  Ginevra  was  happy.  Her  hair  had  grown 
white,  and  several  locks  could  be  seen  above  her 
pale,  wrinkled  forehead,  or  along  her  hollow 
cheeks. 

"It  is  about  a  fortnight,"  she  said,  "since 
Ginevra  has  returned  a  little  later." 

"  Jean  will  not  go  fast  enough,"  cried  the  im- 
patient old  man,  who  folded  the  skirts  of  his  blue 
coat,  seized  his  hat,  crammed  it  on  his  head,  took  his 
cane  and  went  off. 

"You  will  not  go  far,"  cried  his  wife. 

In  fact,  the  gate  had  opened  and  shut,  and  the  old 
mother  heard  Ginevra's  step  in  the  yard.  Barto- 
lomeo  suddenly  reappeared  carrying  his  daughter  in 
triumph,  struggling  in  his  arms. 

"  Here  she  is,  la  Ginevra,  la  Ginevrettina,  la 
Ginevrina,  la  Ginevrola,  la  Ginevretta,  la  Ginevra 
bella!" 

"  Father,  you  are  hurting  me!" 

Ginevra  was  at  once  set  down  with  a  sort  of 
respect.  She  nodded  her  head  pleasantly  to  her 
mother,  who  was  already  startled,  as  if  to  say  to 
her,  "  It  is  only  pretence." 

The  color  and  a  kind  of  gaiety  then  returned  to 
the  baroness's  wan,  pale  face. 

Piombo   then    rubbed    his   hands   with   extreme 


THE  VENDETTA  29 I 

energy,  a  sure  sign  of  gladness;  he  had  acquired 
this  habit  at  Court  from  seeing  Napoleon  in  a  rage 
with  those  of  his  generals  or  ministers  who  served 
him  badly  or  had  committed  some  fault.  Once  the 
muscles  of  his  face  were  relaxed,  the  slightest 
wrinkle  on  his  forehead  bespoke  benevolence.  At 
this  moment  these  two  old  people  exactly  resembled 
suffering  plants  to  whom  a  little  water  restores  life 
after  a  long  drought. 

"Come  to  dinner!"  cried  the  baron  holding  out 
his  great  hand  to  Ginevra,  whom  he  called  Signora 
Piombellina,  another  symptom  of  cheerfulness  that 
his  daughter  answered  with  a  smile. 

"  I  say,"  said  Piombo,  as  they  left  the  table,  "  do 
you  know  that  your  mother  has  remarked  to  me, 
that,  for  a  month,  you  stay  much  longer  than  usual 
at  the  studio?  It  seems  that  painting  comes  before 
us." 

"Oh!  father—" 

"  Doubtless  Ginevra  is  preparing  some  surprise 
for  us,"  said  the  mother. 

"You  are  going  to  bring  me  a  picture  of  your 
own?"  cried  the  Corsican,  clapping  his  hands. 

"  Yes,  1  am  very  busy  at  the  studio,"  she  replied. 

"What  is  the  matter,  Ginevra?  you  are  growing 
pale!"  said  her  mother. 

"No,"  cried  the  young  girl,  a  gesture  of  resolu- 
tion escaping  her,  "no!  it  shall  not  be  said  that 
Ginevra  Piombo  ever  lied  in  her  life!" 

Hearing  this  singular  exclamation,  Piombo  and 
his  wife  looked  at  their  daughter  with  astonishment. 


292  THE  VENDETTA 

"  I  love  a  young  man,"  she  added  with  emotion. 

Then,  not  daring  to  look  at  her  parents,  she 
drooped  her  large  lids,  as  if  to  veil  the  fire  in  her 
eyes. 

"  Is  he  a  prince?"  asked  her  father  ironically  in  a 
tone  of  voice  that  made  the  mother  and  daughter 
tremble. 

"No,  father,"  she  answered  modestly,  "he  is  a 
penniless  young  man — " 

"  Then  he  is  very  handsome?" 

"  He  is  unfortunate." 

"What  does  he  do?" 

"  He  is  Labedoyere's  companion;  he  was  out- 
lawed, without  shelter,  Servin  hid  him,  and — " 

"  Servin  is  an  honest  fellow  who  has  behaved 
well,"  cried  Piombo,  "but  you  do  wrong,  my  child, 
to  love  another  that  your  father — " 

"It  is  not  in  my  power  not  to  love,"  gently 
replied  Ginevra. 

"1  flattered  myself,"  resumed  her  father,  "that 
my  Ginevra  would  be  faithful  to  me  until  death, 
that  she  would  have  received  no  attentions  but  mine 
and  her  mother's,  that  our  tenderness  would  have 
encountered  no  rival  tenderness  in  her  heart,  and 
that—" 

"  Have  I  ever  reproached  you  for  your  fanaticism 
over  Napoleon?"  said  Ginevra.  "Am  I  the  only 
person  you  have  loved?  have  you  not  been  sent  on 
embassies  for  months  at  a  time?  have  I  not  bravely 
endured  your  absences?  Life  has  necessities  that 
one  must  learn  to  submit  to." 


THE  VENDETTA  293 

"  Ginevra!" 

"  No,  you  do  not  love  me  for  myself,  and  your 
reproaches  betray  unbearable  egotism." 

"You  complain  of  your  father's  love!"  cried 
Piombo  with  flaming  eyes. 

"  Father,  I  will  never  accuse  you,"  replied 
Ginevra,  more  gently  than  her  trembling  mother 
expected,  "  you  have  grounds  for  your  egotism,  as  I 
have  grounds  for  my  love.  Heaven  is  my  witness, 
that  never  has  a  daughter  better  fulfilled  her  duty 
towards  her  parents.  I  have  never  found  anything 
but  happiness  and  love  in  what  others  often  consider 
as  an  obligation.  For  fifteen  years  I  have  not 
turned  aside  from  your  protecting  wing,  and  it  has 
been  a  very  sweet  pleasure  for  me  to  brighten  your 
days.  But  should  I  be  ungrateful  in  yielding  my- 
self to  the  charm  of  loving,  in  wishing  for  a  husband 
to  protect  me  after  you  are  gone.?" 

"Ah!  you  are  calculating  with  your  father, 
Ginevra,"  rejoined  the  old  man  in  a  sinister  tone. 

There  was  a  terrifying  pause  during  which  no  one 
dared  speak.  At  last  Bartolomeo  broke  the  silence 
by  crying  in  a  heart-rending  voice: 

"Oh!  stay  with  us,  stay  by  your  old  father:  I 
could  not  bear  to  see  you  loving  a  man.  Ginevra, 
you  will  not  have  long  to  wait  for  your  liberty — " 

"  But,  father,  think,  that  we  will  not  leave  you, 
that  there  will  be  two  to  love  you,  that  you  will 
know  the  man  to  whose  care  you  will  leave  me! 
You  will  be  doubly  loved,  by  me  and  him;  by  him 
who  is  yet  me,  and  by  me  who  am  entirely  himself." 


294  THE   VENDETTA 

"Oh!  Ginevra!  Ginevra!"  cried  the  Corsican, 
clenching  his  fists,  "why  did  you  not  marry  when 
Napoleon  had  accustomed  me  to  the  idea,  and  when 
he  offered  you  dukes  and  counts?" 

"They  loved  me  to  order,"  said  the  young  girl, 
"  besides,  I  did  not  wish  to  leave  you,  and  they 
would  have  taken  me  away  with  them." 

"You  do  not  wish  to  leave  us  alone,"  said 
Piombo,  "  but  to  marry,  is  to  separate  us!  I  know 
you,  child,  you  would  not  love  us  any  more." 

"Elisa,"  he  added,  looking  at  his  wife,  who 
remained  motionless  and  as  if  in  a  stupor,  "we  no 
longer  have  a  daughter,  she  wants  to  marry." 

The  old  man  sat  down  after  raising  his  hands  in 
the  air  as  if  to  invoke  God,  then  he  remained  bowed 
down  as  if  overwhelmed  beneath  his  sorrow. 
Ginevra  saw  her  father's  agitation  and  the  modera- 
tion of  his  anger  broke  her  heart;  she  had  expected 
a  crisis,  a  frenzy;  she  had  not  armed  herself  against 
the  paternal  gentleness. 

"Father,"  she  said  in  a  touching  voice,  "no, 
you  shall  never  be  forsaken  by  your  Ginevra.  But 
love  her  also  a  little  for  herself.  If  you  only  knew 
how  he  loves  me!  Ah!  he  would  not  cause  me  any 
pain!" 

"  Comparisons  already,"  cried  Piombo,  in  terrible 
accents.  "  No!  I  cannot  bear  this  idea,"  he 
resumed.  "  If  he  loved  you  as  you  deserve  to  be 
loved,  he  would  kill  me;  and,  if  he  did  not  love  you, 
I  should  stab  him." 

Piombo's  hands  shook,  his  lips  and  body  trembled 


THE  VENDETTA  295 

and  his  eyes  flashed  lightning;  Ginevra  could 
alone  endure  his  glance,  for  then  her  eyes  kindled, 
and  the  daughter  was  worthy  of  the  father. 

"  Oh!  to  love  you!  What  man  on  earth  is  worthy 
of  it?"  he  resumed.  "  To  love  you  as  a  father,  is 
it  not  already  living  in  Paradise?  Who  then  is 
worthy  of  being  your  husband?" 

"He  is,"  said  Ginevra,  "he  of  whom  I  feel 
myself  so  unworthy." 

"He?"  mechanically  repeated  Piombo,  "who.? 
he?" 

"  The  man  I  love." 

"  Can  he  yet  know  you  well  enough  to  adore 
you?" 

"But,  father,"  replied  Ginevra,  feeling  an  im- 
pulse of  impatience,  "  even  if  he  does  not  love  me, 
as  soon  as  1  love  him — " 

"You  love  him  then?"  cried  Piombo. 

Ginevra  gently  nodded  her  head. 

"  Then  you  love  him  more  than  you  love  us?" 

"  These  two  feelings  cannot  be  compared,"  she 
replied. 

"  One  is  stronger  than  the  other?"  rejoined 
Piombo. 

"  I  think  so,"  said  Ginevra. 

"You  will  not  marry  him!"  cried  the  Corsican, 
in  a  voice  that  made  the  window  panes  ring. 

"  I  shall  marry  him,"  quietly  replied  Ginevra. 

"  Mon  Dieu!  mon  Dieu!"  cried  the  mother,  "  how 
is  this  quarrel  to  end?  Holy  Virgin,  come  between 
them!" 


296  THE  VENDETTA 

The  baron,  who  was  striding  up  and  down,  came 
and  sat  down;  an  icy  sternness  darkened  his  face, 
he  looked  fixedly  at  his  daughter,  and  said  in  a 
gentle,  weak  voice: 

"Well,  Ginevra!  no,  you  will  not  marry  him. 
Oh!  do  not  say  'yes'  to-night — let  me  believe  the 
contrary.  Do  you  want  to  see  your  father  kneeling 
and  his  white  hairs  prostrated  before  you?  I  will 
implore  you — " 

"  Ginevra  Piombo  has  not  been  accustomed  to 
make  a  promise  and  not  keep  it,"  she  replied.  "  I 
am  your  daughter." 

"She  is  right,"  said  the  baroness;  "we  are 
brought  into  the  world  to  marry." 

"So,  you  encourage  her  in  her  disobedience," 
said  the  baron  to  his  wife,  who,  struck  by  this 
word,  became  a  statue. 

"  It  is  not  disobeying  to  refuse  to  comply  with  an 
unjust  order,"  replied  Ginevra. 

"  It  cannot  be  unjust  when  it  emanates  from  your 
father's  mouth,  my  child!  Why  do  you  judge  me? 
Is  not  the  reluctance  I  feel  a  warning  from  on  high? 
I  am  perhaps  preserving  you  from  some  misfortune." 

"  The  misfortune  would  be  if  he  did  not  love  me!" 

"  Always  him!" 

"  Yes,  always,"  she  rejoined;  "  he  is  my  life,  my 
blessing,  my  thought.  Even  in  obeying  you,  he 
would  always  be  in  my  heart.  To  forbid  me  to 
marry  him,  is  it  not  to  make  me  hate  you?" 

"  You  do  not  love  us  any  more!"  cried  Piombo. 

"  Oh!"  said  Ginevra,  shaking  her  head. 


THE  VENDETTA  297 

"  Well  then!  forget  him,  remain  faithful  to  us. 
After  us — you  understand." 

"Father,  do  you  want  me  to  wish  for  your  death?" 
cried  Ginevra. 

"  I  shall  live  longer  than  you  will!  Children  who 
do  not  honor  their  parents  die  soon,"  cried  her 
father,  reaching  the  last  pitch  of  exasperation. 

"  All  the  more  reason  that  I  should  marry  at  once 
and  be  happy,"  she  said. 

This  composure,  this  power  of  reasoning,  com- 
pleted Piombo's  disturbance,  the  blood  rushed 
violently  to  his  head  and  his  face  became  purple. 
Ginevra  shivered,  she  sprang  like  a  bird  on  to  her 
father's  knees,  threw  her  arms  round  his  neck, 
stroked  his  hair,  and  cried,  quite  softened: 

"Oh!  yes!  let  me  die  the  first!  I  shall  not  sur- 
vive you,  father,  my  good  father!" 

"Oh!  my  Ginevra,  my  foolish  Ginevrina!" 
answered  Piombo,  whose  anger  melted  under  this 
caress  like  ice  under  the  sun's  rays. 

"It  was  time  that  you  both  finished,"  said  the 
baroness  in  a  voice  of  emotion. 

"  Poor  mother!" 

"  Ah!  Ginevretta!  ma  Ginevra  bella!" 

And  the  father  played  with  his  daughter  as  if 
with  a  child  of  six,  he  amused  himself  by  undoing 
the  waving  locks  of  her  hair,  by  making  her  dance; 
there  was  something  foolish  in  the  expression  of  his 
tenderness.  Very  soon  his  daughter  scolded  him 
whilst  kissing  him,  and  tried,  whilst  joking,  to  obtain 
permission  for  her  Louis's  admission;  but,  though 


298  THE  VENDETTA 

joking  too,  the  father  refused.  She  pouted,  came 
back  and  pouted  again;  then,  at  the  end  of  the 
evening,  she  felt  content  with  having  engraved  upon 
her  father's  heart  both  her  love  for  Louis  and  the 
idea  of  an  early  marriage. 


The  next  day,  she  did  not  speak  of  her  love,  she 
went  later  to  the  studio,  and  returned  early;  she 
was  more  affectionate  to  her  father  than  she  had 
ever  been,  and  showed  herself  full  of  gratitude,  as 
if  to  thank  him  for  the  consent  his  silence  seemed 
to  give  to  her  marriage.  In  the  evening  she  played 
a  long  time,  and  would  often  cry:  "  This  nocturne 
needs  a  man's  voice!"  She  was  Italian,  which  is 
saying  all. 

At  the  end  of  eight  days,  her  mother  made  a  sign 
to  her;  she  came;  then,  whispering  in  her  ear: 

"I  have  persuaded  your  father  to  receive  him," 
she  said. 

"  Oh!  mother!  you  make  me  very  happy!" 

Accordingly,  that  day,  Ginevra  had  the  happiness 
of  returning  to  her  father's  house  on  Louis's  arm. 
For  the  second  time,  the  poor  officer  was  coming  out 
of  his  hiding-place.  The  active  solicitations  that 
Ginevra  made  to  the  Due  de  Feltre,  at  that  time 
Minister  of  War,  had  been  crowned  with  complete 
success.  Louis  had  just  been  reinstated  on  the  list 
of  unattached  officers.  It  was  a  very  great  step 
toward  a  better  future.  Informed  by  his  sweetheart 
of  all  the  difficulties  that  awaited  him  with  the  baron, 
the  young  major  did  not  dare  confess  the  dread  he 
had  of  not  pleasing  him.  This  man,  so  brave  in 
adversity,  so  bold  on  the  battle-field,  trembled  in 

(299) 


300  THE   VENDETTA 

thinking  of  his  entrance  into  the  Piombos'  drawing- 
room.  Ginevra  felt  him  thrilling,  and  this  emotion, 
whose  element  was  their  happiness,  was  to  her  a 
fresh  proof  of  love. 

"  How  pale  you  are!"  she  said  to  him  when  they 
arrived  at  the  door  of  the  house. 

"Oh!  Ginevra!  if  it  were  only  a  matter  of  my 
life!" 

Although  Bartolomeo  had  been  forewarned  by  his 
wife  of  the  official  presentation  of  the  man  Ginevra 
loved,  he  did  not  come  forward  to  meet  him,  re- 
mained in  the  chair  he  usually  sat  in,  and  the 
severity  of  his  forehead  was  icy. 

"Father,"  said  Ginevra,  "I  have  brought  some 
one  whom  you  will  no  doubt  be  pleased  to  see; 
Monsieur  Louis,  a  soldier  who  fought  four  feet  from 
the  Emperor  at  Mont  Saint-Jean — " 

The  Baron  de  Piombo  rose,  cast  a  furtive  look  at 
Louis  and  said  sardonically: 

"  Monsieur  is  not  decorated.?" 

"  I  no  longer  wear  the  Legion  of  Honor,"  timidly 
answered  Louis,  who  remained  humbly  standing. 

Ginevra,  hurt  at  her  father's  rudeness,  brought 
forward  a  chair.  The  officer's  answer  satisfied  Na- 
poleon's old  servant.  Madame  Piombo,  seeing  that 
her  husband's  eyebrows  were  resuming  their  natural 
position,  said,  in  order  to  enliven  conversation: 

"  The  likeness  between  Monsieur  and  Nina  Porta 
is  very  astonishing.  Do  you  not  think  that  mon- 
sieur has  quite  the  physiognomy  of  'the  Portas?" 

"Nothing  is  more   natural,"  replied   the  young 


THE  VENDETTA  3OI 

man,  upon  whom  Piombo's  flaming  eyes  were  fixed, 
"  Nina  was  my  sister — " 

"  You  are  Luigi  Porta?"  asked  the  old  man. 

"Yes—" 

Bartolomeo  rose,  staggered,  was  obliged  to  lean 
on  a  chair,  and  looked  at  his  wife.  Elisa  Piombo 
came  to  him;  then  the  two  old  people,  in  silence, 
took  each  other's  arms,  and  left  the  drawing-room, 
abandoning  their  daughter  with  a  kind  of  horror. 
Luigi  Porta,  stupefied,  looked  at  Ginevra,  who  be- 
came as  pale  as  a  marble  statue,  and  remained  with 
her  eyes  fixed  upon  the  door  by  which  her  father 
and  mother  had  disappeared;  there  was  something  so 
solemn  in  this  silence  and  this  retreat,  that,  perhaps 
for  the  first  time,  the  feeling  of  fear  entered  her 
heart.  She  clasped  her  hands  violently,  and  said, 
in  so  agitated  a  voice  that  only  a  lover  could  have 
heard  her: 

"What  misery  in  a  word!" 

"In  the  name  of  our  love,  what  have  1  said?" 
asked  Luigi  Porta. 

"My  father,"  she  replied,  "has  never  spoken  to 
me  about  our  wretched  history,  and  I  was  too  young 
when  I  left  Corsica  to  know  it." 

"Were  we  in  -vendetta?"  asked  Luigi,  trembling. 

"Yes.  Upon  questioning  my  mother,  I  learnt 
that  the  Porta  had  killed  my  brothers  and  burnt  our 
house.  My  father  massacred  all  your  family.  How 
have  you  survived,  you  whom  he  believed  he  had 
fastened  to  a  bedpost  before  setting  fire  to  the  house  ? ' ' 

"I  do  not  know,"  replied  Luigi.     "At  six  years 


302  THE  VENDETTA 

of  age  I  was  taken  to  Genoa,  to  the  home  of  an  old 
man  called  Colonna.  No  details  about  my  family 
were  given  me.  I  only  knew  that  I  was  an  orphan 
and  penniless.  This  Colonna  was  a  father  to  me, 
and  I  bore  his  name  up  to  the  day  upon  which  I 
entered  the  service.  As  I  needed  deeds  to  prove 
who  I  was,  the  old  Colonna  then  told  me  that, 
weak  and  still  a  child  as  I  was,  I  had  enemies.  He 
induced  me  to  take  the  name  of  Luigi  only,  so  as  to 
escape  them." 

"Go!  Go!  Luigi!"  cried  Ginevra,  "but  no,  I 
ought  to  accompany  you.  Whilst  you  are  in  my 
father's  house,  you  have  nothing  to  fear;  the 
moment  you  leave  it,  take  care  of  yourself!  you 
will  go  from  danger  to  danger.  My  father  has  two 
Corsicans  in  his  service,  and,  if  he  himself  does  not 
threaten  your  life,  they  will." 

"Ginevra,"  he  said,  "is  this  hatred  to  exist 
between  you  and  me?" 

The  young  girl  smiled  sadly  and  hung  her  head. 
She  soon  lifted  it  with  a  sort  of  pride  and  said: 

"  Oh!  Luigi!  our  feelings  must  be  very  pure  and 
sincere  to  give  me  strength  to  walk  in  the  path  upon 
which  I  am  to  enter.  But  it  is  a  question  of  a 
happiness  that  is  to  last  for  life,  is  it  not?" 

Luigi's  only  answer  was  a  smile  and  he  pressed 
Ginevra's  hand. 

The  young  girl  understood  that  true  love  alone 
could  just  then  disdain  vulgar  protestations.  The 
calm,  conscientious  expression  of  Luigi's  feelings 
foretold,  in  some  degree,  their  strength  and  durance. 


THE  VENDETTA  303 

The  destiny  of  these  two  lovers  was  then  fulfilled. 
Ginevra  foresaw  that  she  would  have  to  wage  some 
cruel  fights;  but  the  idea  of  forsaking  Louis,  a 
thought  which  had  perhaps  drifted  through  her 
mind,  completely  vanished.  His  always,  she  sud- 
denly dragged  him  with  a  sort  of  energy  out  of  the 
house,  and  never  left  him  until  he  reached  the 
house  in  which  Servin  had  rented  him  a  modest 
lodging.  When  she  returned  to  her  father's,  she 
had  assumed  that  species  of  serenity  which  comes 
from  a  strong  resolution;  no  alteration  in  her  man- 
ners reflected  anxiety.  She  looked  up  at  her  father 
and  mother,  whom  she  found  about  to  sit  down  to 
table,  with  eyes  that  were  guiltless  of  defiance  and 
full  of  gentleness;  she  saw  that  her  old  mother  had 
been  crying  and  the  redness  of  her  wrinkled  eyelids 
moved  her  heart  for  a  moment;  but  she  hid  her 
emotion. 

Piombo  seemed  to  be  a  prey  to  a  grief  that  was 
too  violent  and  too  repressed  to  be  betrayed  by 
ordinary  expressions.  The  servants  served  the 
dinner,  which  nobody  touched.  A  horror  of  food  is 
one  of  the  symptoms  that  denote  the  great  crises  of 
the  soul.  All  three  rose  without  having  spoken  a 
word  to  each  other.  When  Ginevra  was  seated 
between  her  father  and  mother  in  their  great, 
dark,  solemn  drawing-room,  Piombo  wanted  to 
speak,  but  lost  his  voice;  he  tried  to  walk,  but  was 
too  weak;  he  returned  to  his  seat  and  rang  the  bell. 

"  Pietro,"  he  said  at  last  to  a  servant,  "  light  the 
fire;  1  am  cold." 


304  THE  VENDETTA 

Ginevra  started  and  looked  anxiously  at  her 
father.  The  struggle  he  was  engaged  in  must  have 
been  horrible,  his  face  was  convulsed.  Ginevra 
knew  the  extent  of  the  peril  which  threatened  her, 
but  she  did  not  quail;  whilst  the  furtive  glances  that 
Bartolomeo  cast  at  his  daughter  seemed  to  imply 
that,  at  this  moment,  he  dreaded  the  temper  whose 
violence  was  his  own  handiwork.  Between  them 
all  must  be  extreme.  Therefore,  the  certainty  of 
the  change  that  might  take  place  in  the  feelings  of 
father  and  daughter,  animated  the  baroness's  face 
with  an  expression  of  terror. 

"  Ginevra,  you  love  the  enemy  of  your  family," 
said  Piombo  finally,  not  daring  to  look  at  his 
daughter. 

"  That  is  true,"  she  replied. 

**  You  must  choose  between  him  and  us.  Our 
vendetta  is  part  of  ourselves.  Whoever  does  not 
espouse  my  vengeance  does  not  belong  to  my 
family." 

"  My  choice  is  made,"  replied  Ginevra  in  a  calm 
voice. 

His  daughter's  quiet  deceived  Bartolomeo. 

"Oh!  my  dear  daughter!"  cried  the  old  man, 
his  eyelids  suffused  with  tears,  the  first  and  the  last 
he  shed  in  his  life. 

"  1  shall  be  his  wife,"  said  Ginevra  hastily. 

Bartolomeo  became  almost  dizzy;  but  he  re- 
covered his  composure  and  replied: 

"  This  marriage  will  not  take  place  during  my 
lifetime,  1  will  never  consent  to  it." 


THE  VENDETTA  305 

Ginevra  was  silent. 

"But,"  continued  the  baron,  "do  you  not  bear 
in  mind  that  Luigi  is  the  son  of  the  man  who  killed 
your  brother?" 

"  He  was  six  years  old  when  the  crime  was  com- 
mitted, he  must  be  innocent  of  it,"  she  answered. 

"A  Porta!"  cried  Bartolomeo. 

"  But  have  I  ever  been  able  to  share  in  this 
hatred?"  said  the  young  girl  eagerly,  "did  you 
bring  me  up  in  the  belief  that  a  Porta  was  a 
monster?  Could  I  imagine  that  anyone  remained  of 
those  you  killed?  Is  it  not  natural  that  you  should 
give  up  your  vendetta  to  my  feelings?" 

"A  Porta!"  said  Piombo.  "  Had  his  father 
formerly  found  you  in  your  bed,  you  would  not 
have  lived,  he  would  have  killed  you  a  hundred 
times  over." 

"  That  may  be,"  she  answered,  "  but  his  son  has 
given  me  more  than  life.  To  see  Luigi,  is  a  happi- 
ness without  which  I  could  not  live.  Luigi  has 
revealed  the  world  of  sentiment  to  me.  I  have 
perhaps  seen  handsomer  faces  than  his,  but  none 
have  charmed  me  so  much;  I  have  perhaps  heard 
voices — no,  no,  never  any  that  were  sweeter. 
Luigi  loves  me,  he  shall  be  my  husband." 

"  Never!"  said  Piombo,  "  1  would  rather  see  you 
in  your  cofifm,  Ginevra." 

The  old  Corsican  rose,  began  to  stride  hastily 
about  the  drawing-room,  and  burst  out  with  these 
words,  after  pauses  which  reflected  all  his  agitation: 

"Perhaps  you  think  you  can  bend  my  will? 
20 


306  THE  VENDETTA 

Undeceive  yourself;  I  will  not  have  a  Porta  for  my 
son-in-law.  Such  is  my  decision.  Let  there  be  no 
more  question  of  it  between  us.  I  am  Bartolomeo 
di  Piombo,  do  you  understand,  Ginevra.?" 

"Do  you  attach  some  mysterious  meaning  to 
these  words?"  she  asked  coldly. 

**  They  mean  that  1  have  a  dagger,  and  that  I  do 
not  fear  the  justice  of  men.  We  Corsicans,  we  go 
and  account  to  God." 

"  Well,"  said  the  daughter  rising,  "  I  am  Ginevra 
di  Piombo,  and  I  declare,  that  in  six  months,  I  shall 
be  Luigi  Porta's  wife.  You  are  a  tyrant,  father," 
she  added,  after  a  dreadful  pause. 

Bartolomeo  clenched  his  fists  and  struck  the 
marble  chimney-piece. 

"  Ah!  we  are  in  Paris!"  he  murmured.  He  held 
his  peace,  folded  his  arms,  hung  his  head  on  his 
chest  and  spoke  not  a  single  word  the  whole  even- 
ing. After  having  expressed  her  will,  the  young 
girl  affected  an  incredible  composure;  she  sat  down 
at  the  piano,  sang,  and  played  delicious  pieces  with 
a  grace  and  feeling  that  denoted  a  perfect  liberty  of 
spirit,  thus  triumphmg  over  her  father,  whose  brow 
did  not  seem  to  soften.  The  old  man  cruelly  felt 
this  implied  taunt,  and  at  this  moment  gathered  one 
of  the  bitter  fruits  of  the  education  he  had  given  his 
daughter.  Respect  is  a  barrier  which  protects  a 
father  and  mother  as  well  as  the  children,  by  sparing 
the  former  sorrow,  and  the  latter  remorse. 

The  next  day,  Ginevra,  wishing  to  go  out  at  the 
hour  she  usually  went  to  the  studio,  found  the  door 


THE  VENDETTA  307 

of  the  house  shut  upon  her;  but  she  soon  invented 
a  means  of  informing  Luigi  of  the  paternal  severity. 
A  lady's  maid,  who  could  not  read,  brought  the 
young  officer  the  letter  that  Ginevra  wrote  to  him. 
For  five  days,  the  two  lovers  were  able  to  corre- 
spond, thanks  to  those  artifices  that  one  can  always 
contrive  at  twenty  years  old. 

The  father  and  daughter  rarely  spoke.  Both,  in 
the  bottom  of  their  hearts,  nursed  a  principle  of 
hatred,  they  suffered,  but  proudly  and  in  silence. 
Knowing  the  strength  of  the  bonds  of  love  that 
attached  them  to  one  another,  they  tried  to  snap 
them,  without  succeeding.  No  gentle  thought 
came,  as  formerly,  to  gladden  Bartolomeo's  stern 
features  when  he  looked  at  his  Ginevra.  The 
young  girl  had  something  fierce  about  her  whenever 
she  looked  at  her  father,  and  reproach  sat  upon  her 
innocent  brow;  she  gave  herself  up  a  great  deal  to 
happy  thoughts,  but  sometimes  remorse  seemed  to 
dim  her  eyes.  It  was  not  even  difficult  to  guess 
that  she  would  never  be  able  to  calmly  rejoice  in  a 
happiness  that  caused  the  sorrow  of  her  parents. 

With  Bartolomeo,  as  with  his  daughter,  all  the 
irresolution  produced  by  their  natural  goodness  of 
heart  was  nevertheless  bound  to  clash  with  their 
pride  and  the  ill-will  peculiar  to  Corsicans.  They 
encouraged  each  other  in  their  anger,  and  shut  their 
eyes  to  the  future.  Perhaps  they  also  flattered 
themselves  that  one  would  yield  to  the  other. 

On  Ginevra's  birthday,  her  mother,  in  despair  at 
this  breach,  which  was  assuming  a  serious  character. 


308  THE  VENDETTA 

meditated  reconciling  the  father  and  daughter,  by 
virtue  of  the  memories  of  this  anniversary.  They 
were  all  three  assembled  in  Bartolomeo's  room. 
Ginevra  guessed  her  mother's  intention  from  the 
hesitation  depicted  on  her,  face,  and  she  smiled 
sadly. 

Just  then,  a  servant  announced  two  public  nota- 
ries, who  entered,  accompanied  by  several  witnesses. 

Bartolomeo  looked  fixedly  at  these  men,  whose 
coldly  precise  faces  were  somehow  hurtful  to  souls 
as  passionate  as  were  those  of  the  three  principal 
actors  in  this  scene.  The  old  man  turned  towards 
his  daughter  in  an  anxious  way,  and  saw  on  her 
face  a  triumphant  smile  which  made  him  suspect 
some  calamity;  but,  as  savages  do,  he  feigned  a 
delusive  apathy  whilst  looking  at  the  two  notaries 
with  a  kind  of  calm  curiosity.  The  strangers  sat 
down  after  having  been  invited  to  do  so  by  a  gesture 
from  the  old  man. 

"Monsieur  is  doubtless  Monsieur  le  Baron  de 
Piombo.'"'  asked  the  elder  of  the  notaries. 

Bartolomeo  bowed.  The  notary  moved  his  head 
slightly,  and  looked  at  the  young  girl  with  the  sly 
expression  of  a  bailiff  surprising  a  debtor;  he  drew 
out  his  snuff-box,  opened  it,  took  a  pinch  of  snuff, 
and  began  to  inhale  it  spasmodically  whilst  search- 
ing for  the  opening  words  of  his  discourse;  then, 
whilst  delivering  it,  he  made  continual  pauses — an 
oratorical  manoeuvre  that  this  mark  —  very  imper- 
fectly represents. 

"  Monsieur,"  said  he,   "I  am   Monsieur  Roguin, 


THE  VENDETTA  3O9 

notary  to  mademoiselle  your  daughter,  and  we 
come — my  colleague  and  I — to  accomplish  the  will 
of  the  law  and— put  an  end  to  the  disagreement — 
which — it  seems — has  come  between  you  and  made- 
moiselle your  daughter — on  the  subject — of — her — 
marriage  with  Monsieur  Luigi  Porta." 

This  sentence,  rather  pedantically  delivered,  prob- 
ably seemed  too  fine  to  Maitre  Roguin  to  be  under- 
stood all  at  once;  he  stopped  and  looked  at  Bartolomeo 
with  an  expression  peculiar  to  men  of  business,  and 
which  is  something  between  servility  and  familiarity. 

By  pretending  to  assume  a  great  deal  of  concern 
for  the  people  to  whom  they  are  talking,  the  faces 
of  notaries  finish  by  contracting  into  a  grimace  that 
they  put  on  and  take  off  like  their  official  pallium. 
This  mask  of  kindliness,  the  mechanism  of  which  is 
so  easily  discerned,  so  irritated  Bartolomeo,  that  he 
had  to  collect  all  his  senses  not  to  throw  Monsieur 
Roguin  out  of  the  window;  an  angry  expression 
crept  into  his  wrinkles,  and,  seeing  this,  the  notary 
said  to  himself: 

"I  am  producing  an  effect. — But,"  he  resumed, 
in  horrid  accents,  "  Monsieur  le  Baron,  on  occasions 
like  this,  our  good  offices  always  begin  by  being 
essentially  conciliatory. — Deign  therefore  to  have 
the  goodness  to  listen  to  me. — It  is  undeniable  that 
Mademoiselle  Ginevra  Piombo — attains  upon  this 
very  day  the  age  which  permits  to  a  young  woman 
the  right  of  claiming  from  her  parents  her  independ- 
ence in  the  matter  of  her  marriage — in  spite  of  their 
lack  of  consent.    Now, — it  is  customary  in  families — 


3IO  THE  VENDETTA 

who — enjoy  a  certain  esteem, — who  belong  to  so- 
ciety,— who  maintain  some  dignity, — to  whom,  in 
short,  it  is  of  importance  to  guard  the  secret  of  their 
dissensions  from  the  public, — and  who,  besides,  do 
not  wish  to  injure  themselves  by  blasting  the  future 
of  the  young  married  couple  with  their  disapproval, 
— for  it  is  injuring  one's  self, — it  is  customary, — I 
say, — amongst  these  honorable  families — not  to 
allow  such  processes  to  remain  open, — that  last, 
that — are  monuments  of  a  division  that — ends — by 
ceasing. —  The  moment,  monsieur,  a  young  lady  has 
recourse  to  legal  process,  she  shows  too  determined 
a  purpose  for  a  father — and — a  mother,"  he  added, 
turning  towards  the  baroness,  "to  hope  to  see  her 
follow  their  advice. — Paternal  resistance  is  then 
made  void — by  this  deed— in  the  first  place, — then 
being  invalidated  by  the  law,  it  is  certain  that  any 
wise  man,  after  having  made  a  last  remonstrance  to 
his  child,  will  give  liberty  to — " 

Monsieur  Roguin  stopped,  seeing  that  he  might 
talk  in  this  way  for  two  hours  without  obtaining  any 
reply,  and  he  experienced,  moreover,  a  peculiar 
emotion  at  the  appearance  of  the  man  he  was  trying 
to  convert.  Bartolomeo's  face  had  undergone  an 
extraordinary  revolution,  all  his  contracted  wrinkles 
gave  him  an  air  of  indefinable  cruelty,  and  the  look 
he  cast  at  the  notary  was  like  that  of  a  tiger.  The 
baroness  remained  mute  and  passive.  Ginevra, 
calm  and  resolute,  was  waiting;  she  knew  that  the 
notary's  voice  was  more  powerful  than  her  own, 
and  so  she  seemed  to  have  decided  to  be  silent. 


THE  VENDETTA  31I 

When  Roguin  stopped  speaking,  this  scene  became 
so  terrifying,  that  the  strange  witnesses  trembled; 
never,  perhaps,  had  they  been  struck  by  such  a 
silence. 

The  notaries  looked  at  each  other  as  if  in  consul- 
tation, rose,  and  went  together  to  the  window. 

"  Have  you  ever  met  such  clients?"  Roguin  asked 
of  his  colleague. 

"There  is  nothing  to  be  drawn  from  them,"  re- 
plied the  younger  man.  "  In  your  place  I  should 
content  myself  with  reading  my  deed.  To  me  the 
old  man  does  not  seem  assuming,  he  is  furious,  and 
you  will  gain  nothing  by  insisting  on  arguing  with 
him." 

Monsieur  Roguin  read  a  stamped  paper  containing 
a  report  drawn  up  in  advance,  and  coldly  asked  Bar- 
tolomeo  for  his  reply. 

"  Then  there  are  laws  in  France  that  destroy  the 
paternal  power?"  asked  the  Corsican. 

"Monsieur — "  said  Roguin  in  his  honeyed  voice. 

"  That  snatch  a  daughter  from  her  father?" 

"  Monsieur — " 

"  That  deprive  an  old  man  of  his  last  consolation?" 

"  Monsieur,  your  daughter  only  belongs  to  you — " 

"That  kill  him?" 

"  Monsieur,  allow  me!" 

Nothing  is  more  ghastly  than  the  composure  and 
correct  reasoning  of  notaries  in  the  midst  of  the 
passionate  scenes  in  which  they  are  wont  to  inter- 
vene. The  faces  that  Piombo  looked  upon  seemed 
to  him  to  have  escaped  from  hell;  when  the  quiet 


312  THE   VENDETTA 

and  almost  flute-like  voice  of  his  little  antagonist 
uttered  that  fatal  "Allow  me!"  his  cold,  concen- 
trated rage  knew  no  bounds.  He  seized  a  long 
dagger  hanging  on  a  nail  over  the  chimney-piece 
and  sprang  upon  his  daughter.  The  youngest  of  the 
two  notaries  and  one  of  the  witnesses  threw  them- 
selves between  him  and  Ginevra;  but  Bartolomeo 
rudely  overturned  the  two  peacemakers,  turning 
upon  them  a  flaming  face  and  blazing  eyes  which 
appeared  more  terrible  than  the  dagger's  brightness. 
When  Ginevra  found  herself  face  to  face  with  her 
father,  she  looked  at  him  triumphantly,  slowly  ap- 
proached him  and  knelt  down. 

"  No!  no!  I  could  not,"  he  said,  flinging  away  his 
weapon  so  violently  that  it  was  embedded  in  the 
woodwork. 

"Well,  then,  mercy!  mercy!"  she  said.  "You 
hesitate  to  give  me  death,  and  yet  you  refuse  me 
life.  Oh!  father,  never  have  I  loved  you  so  much. 
Grant  me  Luigi!  1  ask  your  consent  on  my  knees; 
a  daughter  may  humble  herself  before  her  father — . 
My  Luigi!  or  1  die!" 

The  violent  excitement  which  was  choking  her 
prevented  her  from  continuing  and  she  lost  her 
voice;  her  convulsive  efforts  showed  plainly  enough 
that  she  was  between  life  and  death.  Bartolomeo 
harshly  repulsed  his  daughter. 

"  Go,"  he  said.  "  The  wife  of  Luigi  Porta  could 
not  be  a  Piombo.  I  have  a  daughter  no  longer!  I 
have  not  the  strength  to  curse  you;  but  1  renounce 
you,  and  you  have  a  father  no  more.     My  Ginevra 


THE  VENDETTA'  313 

Piombo  is  buried  iiere,"  he  cried  in  a  deep  voice, 
tightly  pressing  his  heart. — "So  leave!  wretched 
girl,"  he  added  after  a  moment's  silence,  "leave! 
and  never  appear  before  me  again!" 

Then  he  took  Ginevra's  arm  and  silently  led  her 
out  of  the  house. 

"Luigi!"  cried  Ginevra,  entering  the  modest 
apartment  where  the  young  officer  was,  "  my  Luigi, 
we  have  no  other  fortune  than  our  love." 

"  We  are  richer  than  all  the  kings  of  the  earth!" 
he  replied. 

"My  father  and  mother  have  abandoned  me," 
she  said  with  deep  sadness. 

"  I  will  love  you  for  them." 

"  Then  we  shall  be  very  happy?"  she  cried  with 
a  gaiety  that  was  somewhat  ghastly. 

"Always!"  he  answered,  pressing  her  to  his 
heart. 


The  day  after  Ginevra  left  her  father's  house, 
she  went  to  beg  Madame  Servin  to  give  her  shelter 
and  her  protection  until  the  time  fixed  by  the  law 
for  her  marriage  with  Luigi  Porta.  Then  began  for 
her  the  apprenticeship  to  those  sorrows  that  society 
spreads  round  those  who  do  not  follow  its  customs. 
Very  much  vexed  at  the  blame  Ginevra  had  brought 
upon  her  husband,  Madame  Servin  received  the 
fugitive  coldly,  and  informed  her  in  a  few  polite, 
guarded  words  that  she  must  not  count  upon  her 
support.  Too  proud  to  persist,  but  astonished  at  an 
egotism  to  which  she  was  not  accustomed,  the 
young  Corsican  went  to  the  lodging-house  which 
was  nearest  to  the  house  in  which  Luigi  lived.  The 
son  of  the  Portas  came  and  spent  all  his  days  at  his 
future  wife's  feet;  his  youthful  love,  and  the  purity 
of  his  words,  dispelled  the  clouds  that  the  paternal 
disapproval  gathered  on  the  banished  girl's  forehead, 
and  he  would  paint  such  a  beautiful  future,  that  she 
finished  by  smiling,  without,  however,  forgetting  the 
harshness  of  her  parents.  One  morning,  the  ser- 
vant of  the  house  brought  Ginevra  several  trunks 
which  contained  materials,  linens,  and  a  host  of 
things  necessary  to  a  young  wife  setting  up  a  house- 
hold; in  this  present  she  recognized  a  mother's 
prudent  kindness;  for,  upon  examining  these  gifts, 
she  found  a  purse  in  which  the  baroness  had  put  the 

(315) 


3l6  THE  VENDETTA 

sum  belonging  to  her  daughter,  adding  to  it  the 
fruits  of  her  economy.  The  money  was  accom- 
panied by  a  letter  in  which  the  mother  besought 
the  daughter  to  abandon  her  fatal  contemplation  of 
marriage,  if  there  were  yet  time;  she  had  been 
obliged,  she  said,  to  take  unheard-of  precautions  in 
getting  this  slight  help  to  Ginevra;  she  begged  her 
not  to  accuse  her  of  unkindness,  if,  in  course  of 
time  she  left  her  to  neglect,  she  feared  she  would 
be  unable  to  help  her,  she  blessed  her,  and  wished 
her  happiness  in  this  fatal  marriage,  if  she  insisted 
upon  it,  whilst  assuring  her  that  her  thoughts  were 
only  with  her  beloved  daughter.  At  this  part,  tears 
had  obliterated  several  words  of  the  letter. 

"Oh!  mother!"  cried  Ginevra,  entirely  relenting. 

She  felt  a  longing  to  throw  herself  on  her  knees, 
to  see  her  and  breathe  the  genial  air  of  the 
paternal  home;  she  was  on  the  point  of  rushing  out, 
when  Luigi  came  in;  she  looked  at  him,  and  her 
filial  tenderness  vanished,  her  tears  dried,  and  she 
felt  she  had  not  strength  enough  to  forsake  such  an 
unfortunate  and  affectionate  youth.  To  be  the  only 
hope  of  a  noble  creature,  to  love  and  yet  desert 
him — this  sacrifice  was  a  treachery  of  which 
youthful  hearts  are  incapable.  Ginevra  had  the 
generosity  to  bury  her  misery  in  the  depths  of  her 
heart. 

At  last,  the  wedding  day  arrived.  Ginevra  had 
nobody  with  her.  Luigi  took  advantage  of  the 
time  she  was  dressing  to  go  and  find  the  wit- 
nesses necessary  to  the  signature  of  their  marriage 


THE  VENDETTA  317 

certificate.  These  witnesses  were  worthy  folk.  The 
one,  formerly  a  quartermaster  in  the  hussars,  had, 
whilst  in  the  army,  laid  himself  under  obligations  to 
Luigi,  which  are  never  blotted  out  of  an  honest 
man's  heart;  he  had  set  up  as  a  livery  stableman 
and  owned  several  cabs.  The  other,  a  master-mason, 
was  landlord  of  the  house  in  which  the  newly-mar- 
ried couple  were  to  live.  Each  of  them  took  a  friend, 
then  all  four  came  with  Luigi  to  fetch  the  bride. 
Unaccustomed  to  social  humbug,  and  looking  upon 
the  service  they  were  rendering  Luigi  as  a  matter  of 
course,  these  people  had  dressed  neatly,  but  quietly, 
and  nothing  betrayed  a  merry  wedding  procession. 
Ginevra  herself  was  dressed  very  simply,  so  as  to 
be  in  keeping  with  her  means;  nevertheless,  her 
beauty  was  somehow  so  noble  and  striking,  that,  at 
sight  of  her  the  words  died  away  on  the  lips  of  the 
witnesses,  who  had  thought  themselves  bound  to 
pay  her  some  compliment;  they  greeted  her  respect- 
fully and  she  bowed;  they  looked  at  her  in  silence 
and  could  only  admire  her.  This  reserve  threw  a 
chill  over  them  all.  Joy  can  only  burst  out  amongst 
people  who  feel  they  are  equals.  So  chance  ordained 
that  all  around  the  fiances  should  be  gloomy  and 
solemn;  nothing  reflected  their  happiness.  The 
church  and  mayoralty  were  not  very  far  from  the 
hotel.  The  two  Corsicans,  followed  by  the  four 
witnesses  prescribed  by  the  law,  would  go  there  on 
foot,  in  a  simplicity  that  stripped  this  great  scene  in 
social  life  of  all  display.  In  the  yard  of  the  mayor- 
alty they  found  a  crowd  of  carriages  which  meant  a 


3l8  THE  VENDETTA 

numerous  company;  they  went  up  and  came  to  a 
great  hall  where  the  wedding  couples,  whose  happi- 
ness was  appointed  for  that  day,  were  waiting  some- 
what impatiently  for  the  mayor  of  the  district. 
Ginevra  sat  down  close  to  Luigi  at  the  end  of  a  big 
bench,  and  their  witnesses,  for  want  of  seats,  stood 
up.  Two  brides,  gorgeously  dressed  in  white, 
covered  with  bouquets  of  orange  blossom  whose 
satin  buds  quivered  beneath  their  veils,  were  sur- 
rounded by  their  joyful  families,  and  accompanied 
by  their  mothers,  whom  they  looked  at  with 
alternate  glances  of  satisfaction  and  timidity;  all 
eyes  reflected  their  happmess,  and  every  face 
seemed  to  lavish  blessings  upon  them.  Fathers, 
witnesses,  brothers  and  sisters  all  came  and  went 
like  a  swarm  of  bees  disporting  themselves  in  a 
vanishing  ray  of  sunshine.  Each  one  seemed  to 
understand  the  value  of  this  fleeting  moment  when, 
in  life,  the  heart  finds  itself  torn  between  two  hopes; 
the  longing  for  the  past,  and  the  promises  of  the 
future.  At  sight  of  all  this,  Ginevra  felt  her  heart 
swelling,  and  she  pressed  Luigi's  arm,  who  looked 
at  her.  Tears  swam  in  the  young  Corsican's  eyes, 
he  never  understood  better  than  at  that  moment  all 
that  his  Ginevra  was  sacrificing  for  him.  These 
precious  tears  caused  the  young  girl  to  forget  her 
desertion.  Love  shed  treasures  of  light  between 
the  two  lovers,  so  that  they  no  longer  saw 
anything  but  their  own  selves  in  the  midst  of 
this  confusion;  they  were  there,  alone  in  this 
crowd,  such  as  they  were  to  be  through  life.    Their 


THE  VENDETTA  319 

witnesses,  regardless  of  ceremony,  were  chatting 
quietly  about  their  affairs. 

"  Oats  are  very  dear,"  the  quartermaster  was 
saying  to  the  mason. 

"  Not  so  much  so  as  plaster,  making  all  allow- 
ance," replied  the  contractor. 

And  they  took  a  turn  round  the  hall. 

"  How  they  waste  time  here!"  cried  the  mason, 
returning  a  big  silver  watch  to  his  pocket. 

Luigi  and  Ginevra,  crowded  close  together,  seemed 
to  be  but  one  person.  Indeed,  a  poet  would  have 
admired  these  two  heads  united  by  the  same  feel- 
ing, colored  alike,  both  sad  and  silent  in  the  presence 
of  two  buzzing  wedding  parties,  before  four  riotous 
families,  glittering  with  diamonds  and  flowers,  and 
whose  gaiety  had  something  transient  about  it.  All 
the  joy  shown  outwardly  by  these  noisy,  resplend- 
ent groups,  Luigi  and  Ginevra  buried  in  the  depth 
of  their  hearts.  On  the  one  hand,  the  vulgar 
uproar  of  pleasure;  on  the  other,  the  delicate  silence 
of  joyful  souls:  earth  and  heaven.  But  the  trembling 
Ginevra  could  not  entirely  divest  herself  of  a 
woman's  weaknesses.  Superstitious,  like  all  Italians, 
she  would  see  an  omen  in  this  contrast,  and  a  feeling 
of  terror,  as  unconquerable  as  that  of  her  love,  kept 
hold  of  her  heart.  All  of  a  sudden,  a  porter  in  the 
town  livery  opened  a  double  swing  door;  all  were 
silent,  and  his  voice  resounded  like  a  shout  as  he 
called  Monsieur  Luigi  da  Porta  and  Mademoiselle 
Ginevra  di  Piombo.  This  moment  caused  the  two 
lovers  some  embarrassment. 


320  THE  VENDETTA 

The  fame  of  the  name  of  Piombo  attracted  atten- 
tion, the  spectators  looked  for  a  wedding  that,  it 
seemed,  ought  to  have  been  sumptuous.  Ginevra 
rose,  her  glance  of  withering  pride  awed  the  whole 
crowd,  she  took  Luigi's  arm  and  proceeded  with  a 
firm  step,  followed  by  her  witnesses.  An  increasing 
murmur  of  astonishment  and  general  whispering 
reminded  Ginevra  that  the  world  was  asking  an 
account  of  her  parents'  absence;  the  paternal  curse 
seemed  to  be  pursuing  her. 

"  Wait  for  the  families,"  said  the  mayor  to  the 
clerk,  who  was  promptly  beginning  to  read  the 
deeds. 

"  The  father  and  mother  protest,"  phlegmatically 
replied  the  secretary. 

"  On  both  sides?"  rejoined  the  mayor. 

"  The  bridegroom  is  an  orphan." 

"  Where  are  the  witnesses,?" 

"Here  they  are,"  again  replied  the  secretary, 
pointing  to  the  four  motionless,  silent  men,  who, 
with  folded  arms,  looked  like  statues. 

"  But  if  there  is  a  protestation?"  said  the  mayor. 

"The  necessary  legal  requirements  have  been 
complied  with,"  replied  the  clerk  getting  up  to  hand 
over  to  the  functionary  the  documents  annexed  to 
the  marriage  certificate. 

There  was  something  degrading  in  this  official 
discussion  and  it  contained  a  whole  history  in  very 
few  words.  The  hatred  of  the  Porta  and  the 
Piombo,  and  terrible  passions  were  inscribed  on  a 
page  of  the  civil  register,  as  the  annals  of  a  people 


THE  VENDETTA  32 I 

are  graven  in  a  few  lines,  or  even  in  one  word  on 
the  lieadstone  of  a  grave:  Robespierre  or  Napoleon. 
Ginevra  trembled.  Like  the  dove,  who  in  crossing 
the  seas,  only  had  the  ark  on  which  to  set  her  feet, 
she  could  only  turn  her  gaze  into  Luigi's  eyes,  for 
all  was  dreary  and  cold  around  her.  The  mayor 
wore  an  air  of  severe  disapproval,  and  his  clerk 
looked  at  the  couple  with  malicious  curiosity.  Never 
did  anything  appear  less  like  a  fete.  Like  all  things 
in  human  life  when  stripped  of  their  accessories,  it 
was  an  act  simple  in  itself,  but  infinite  in  thought. 
After  several  questions  that  the  bride  and  bridegroom 
answered,  after  the  mayor  had  mumbled  several 
words,  and  after  afTixing  their  signatures  to  the 
register,  Luigi  and  Ginevra  were  united.  The  two 
young  Corsicans, — whose  union  held  all  the  poetry 
perpetuated  by  genius  in  that  of  Romeo  and  Juliet, — 
walked  through  two  rows  of  joyful  relations  to 
whom  they  did  not  belong,  and  were  almost  impa- 
tient over  the  delay  caused  by  this  seemingly 
mournful  marriage.  When  the  young  girl  found  her- 
self in  the  yard  of  the  mayoralty  and  under  the  sky, 
a  sigh  burst  from  her  bosom. 

"  Oh!  can  a  whole  life  of  care  and  love  requite 
my  Ginevra's  courage  and  tenderness?"  said  Luigi. 

At  these  words  accompanied  by  tears  of  joy,  the 
bride  forgot  all  her  sufferings;  for  she  had  suffered 
in  facing  the  world  to  claim  a  happiness  that  her 
family  refused  to  sanction. 

"  Why  do  men  come  between  us?"  she  said  with 
a  simplicity  of  feeling  that  delighted  Luigi. 
21 


322  THE  VENDETTA 

Pleasure  gave  buoyancy  to  the  married  couple. 
They  saw  neither  sky,  nor  earth,  nor  houses,  and 
flew  as  if  with  wings  toward  the  church.  At  last 
they  reached  a  gloomy  little  chapel  and  stood  before 
a  quiet  altar  where  an  old  priest  celebrated  their 
union.  There,  as  at  the  mayoralty,  they  were  sur- 
rounded by  the  two  wedding  parties  whose  noise 
had  so  worried  them.  The  church,  filled  with  friends 
and  relations,  re-echoed  with  the  noise  made  by  the 
carriages,  the  beadles,  the  porters  and  the  priests* 
The  altars  blazed  with  every  ecclesiastical  luxury, 
the  wreaths  of  orange  blossoms  decking  the  statues 
of  the  Virgin  seemed  to  be  new.  One  saw  nothing 
but  flowers,  glittering  tapers  and  velvet,  gold  em- 
broidered cushions,  while  delicious  perfumes  sur- 
rounded them.  God  seemed  to  smile  upon  this  joy 
of  a  day.  When  it  was  necessary  to  hold  over 
Luigi's  and  Ginevra's  heads  the  symbol  of  eternal 
union,  the  soft,  shining  white  satin  yoke,  light  for 
some,  and  of  lead  for  most,  the  priest  looked,  but  in 
vain,  for  the  youths  who  fill  this  glad  office;  they 
were  replaced  by  two  of  the  witnesses.  The  ecclesi- 
astic hastily  gave  the  married  couple  an  address 
upon  the  perils  of  life  and  the  duties  that  they  would 
one  day  have  to  teach  their  children;  and,  whilst  on 
this  subject,  he  insinuated  an  indirect  reproach  upon 
the  absence  of  Ginevra's  parents;  then,  after  having 
joined  them  before  God,  as  the  mayor  had  united 
them  before  the  law,  he  finished  his  mass  and  left 
them. 

"God  bless  them!"  said  Vergniaud  to  the  mason 


THE  VENDETTA  323 

under  the  church  porch.  "  Never  were  two  crea- 
tures better  made  for  each  other.  That  girl's  pa- 
rents are  idiots.  I  know  no  braver  soldier  than 
Colonel  Louis!  If  everyone  had  behaved  as  he  did, 
the  other  would  still  be  here." 

The  soldier's  blessing,  the  only  one  that  had  been 
given  them  that  day,  shed  balm  on  Ginevra's  heart. 
They  separated  in  clasping  each  other's  hands,  and 
Luigi  cordially  thanked  his  landlord. 

"  Good-bye,  my  brave  fellow,"  said  Luigi  to  the 
quartermaster,  "  I  thank  you." 

"  You  are  welcome,  colonel — soul,  self,  horses  and 
carriages,  all  that  I  have  is  at  your  disposal." 

"  How  he  loves  you!"  said  Ginevra. 

Luigi  eagerly  hurried  his  bride  to  the  house  they 
were  to  occupy;  they  soon  gained  their  modest 
apartment;  and  there,  when  the  door  was  shut, 
Luigi  took  his  wife  in  his  arms,  crying: 

"  Oh!  my  Ginevra!  for  now  you  are  mine — here 
is  our  true  fete.  Here,"  he  continued,  **  everything 
will  smile  upon  us." 

Together  they  went  through  the  three  rooms 
which  formed  their  home.  The  first  room  served  as 
drawing-room  and  dining-room.  On  the  right  was 
a  bedroom,  to  the  left  a  big  closet  that  Luigi  had 
arranged  for  his  dear  wife  and  where  she  found 
easels,  paint-boxes,  plaster  casts,  models,  lay  figures, 
pictures,  portfolios,  in  short,  all  the  artist's  property. 

"  Then  I  shall  work  there,"  she  said  with  childish 
expression. 

For  a  long  time  she  looked  at  the  hangings,  the 


324  THE  VENDETTA 

furniture,  and  was  ever  turning  to  Luigi  to  thank 
him,  for  there  was  a  kind  of  magnificence  about  this 
little  habitation;  a  book  shelf  contained  Ginevra's 
favorite  books,  and  at  the  further  end  was  a  piano. 

She  sat  down  on  a  divan,  drew  Luigi  beside  her, 
and  squeezing  his  hand: 

"You  have  good  taste,"  she  said  caressingly. 

"  Your  words  make  me  very  happy,"  he  said. 

"  But  let  us  see  everything,"  demanded  Ginevra, 
to  whom  Luigi  had  made  a  mystery  of  the  decora- 
tions of  this  retreat. 

They  then  went  towards  a  nuptial  chamber,  fresh 
and  white  as  a  virgin. 

"Oh!  come  out!"  said  Luigi,  laughing. 

"  But  I  want  to  see  everything." 

And  the  imperious  Ginevra  inspected  the  furniture 
with  the  inquisitive  attention  of  an  antiquary  exam- 
ining a  medal;  she  touched  the  silks  and  reviewed 
everything  with  the  naive  satisfaction  of  a  young 
bride  displaying  the  riches  of  her  wedding  presents. 

"  We  are  beginning  by  ruining  ourselves,"  she 
said,  with  an  air  half  glad,  half  sorrowful. 

"  That's  true!  all  the  arrears  of  my  pay  are 
there,"  replied  Luigi,  "I  sold  them  to  an  honest 
man  called  Gigonnet." 

"  Why?"  she  rejoined  in  a  reproachful  tone  mixed 
with  secret  satisfaction.  "  Do  you  think  I  would  be 
less  happy  in  an  attic?  But,"  she  continued,  "all 
this  is  very  pretty  and  belongs  to  us." 

Luigi  was  contemplating  her  with  so  much  rap- 
ture, that  she  lowered  her  gaze  and  said: 


THE  VENDETTA  325 

"  Let  us  go  and  see  the  rest." 

Above  these  three  rooms,  under  the  roof,  was  a 
study  for  Luigi,  a  kitchen  and  a  servant's  bedroom. 
Ginevra  was  content  with  her  little  domain,  although 
the  view  was  limited  by  the  large  wall  of  a  neigh- 
boring house,  and  the  courtyard  that  gave  them 
light  was  gloomy.  But  the  two  lovers  were  so  glad 
of  heart,  and  hope  gilded  their  future  so  well,  that 
they  would  see  nothing  but  delightful  imagery  in 
their  mysterious  abode.  They  were  in  a  corner  of 
this  enormous  house  and  lost  in  the  immensity  of 
Paris  like  two  pearls  in  their  shell,  in  the  bosom  of  a 
deep  sea;  to  anyone  else  it  would  have  been  a 
prison,  to  them  it  was  a  paradise.  The  first  days  of 
their  union  were  given  up  to  love.  They  found  it 
too  hard  to  devote  themselves  all  at  once  to  work, 
and  they  could  not  resist  the  spell  of  their  rightful 
passion.  Luigi  lay  whole  hours  at  his  wife's  feet, 
admiring  the  color  of  her  hair,  the  shape  of  her 
forehead,  the  delightful  setting  of  her  eyes,  the 
purity  and  whiteness  of  the  two  arches  under  which 
they  slowly  glided  in  expressing  the  joy  of  satisfied 
love.  Ginevra  stroked  her  Luigi's  hair,  never  tired 
of  contemplating,  according  to  one  of  her  own 
expressions,  this  young  man's  beltd  folgomnte,  and 
the  delicacy  of  his  features;  ever  fascinated  by  the 
dignity  of  his  manners,  as  she  always  fascinated 
him  by  the  gracefulness  of  hers.  They  played  like 
children  with  trifles,  these  trifles  always  led  them 
back  to  their  passion,  and  they  only  ceased  their 
play  to  sink  into  dreams  of  far  niente.     An  air  that 


326  THE  VENDETTA 

Ginevra  sang  would  reproduce  the  delicious  tran- 
sitions of  their  love.  Then,  linking  their  steps 
as  they  had  joined  their  souls,  they  would  scour  the 
fields  finding  their  love  wherever  they  went,  in  the 
flowers,  and  skies,  and  in  the  heart  of  the  fiery  tints 
of  the  setting  sun;  they  even  read  it  in  the  fitful 
clouds  that  wavered  in  the  breeze.  Two  days  were 
never  alike,  their  love  increased  because  it  was 
genuine.  In  a  very  few  days  they  had  tested  each 
other,  and  had  instinctively  recognized  that  their 
minds  were  those  whose  inexhaustible  riches  always 
seem  to  promise  fresh  delights  in  the  future.  It  was 
love  in  all  its  simplicity,  with  its  interminable  chats, 
its  unfinished  sentences,  its  long  silences,  its  oriental 
repose  and  passion.  Luigi  and  Ginevra  understood 
all  there  was  in  love.  Is  not  love  like  the  sea, 
which,  when  seen  superficially  or  hastily,  is  declared 
by  common  souls  to  be  monotonous,  whilst  certain 
privileged  beings  can  pass  their  lives  admiring  it, 
constantly  discovering  changing  phenomena  which 
delight  them? 

However,  very  soon,  prudence  came  to  drag  the 
young  bride  and  bridegroom  from  their  Eden;  it  was 
necessary  that  they  should  work  to  live.  Ginevra, 
who  possessed  a  peculiar  talent  for  imitating  old  pic- 
tures, set  to  work  to  make  copies  and  formed  a  con- 
nection amongst  the  dealers.  Luigi,  on  his  side, 
very  energetically  sought  occupation,  but  it  was 
very  difficult  for  a  young  officer,  whose  whole  talents 
were  confined  to  a  thorough  knowledge  of  stratagem, 
to  find  employment  in  Paris.    At  last,  one  day  when 


THE  VENDETTA  327 

tired  of  his  useless  efforts,  he  was  in  despair  at 
seeing  that  the  burden  of  their  existence  was  entirely 
falling  upon  Ginevra,  he  bethought  himself  of  turn- 
ing his  handwriting,  which  was  very  good,  to  account. 
Following  the  example  of  his  wife's  perseverance, 
he  went  and  applied  to  all  the  solicitors,  notaries, 
and  lawyers  in  Paris.  The  frankness  of  his  man- 
ners, and  his  position,  interested  them  deeply  in  his 
behalf,  and  he  obtained  sufficient  copying  to  be 
obliged  to  have  the  help  of  young  men.  By  degrees 
he  undertook  writings  on  a  large  scale.  The  pro- 
ceeds from  this  office,  and  from  Ginevra's  pictures, 
finished  by  placing  the  young  household  in  such 
easy  circumstances  that  they  were  proud,  for  it  all 
proceeded  from  their  industry.  It  was  the  happiest 
moment  of  their  lives.  The  days  sped  rapidly  be- 
tween business  and  the  delights  of  love.  In  the 
evenings,  after  having  worked  hard,  they  loved  to 
find  themselves  in  Ginevra's  cell.  Music  comforted 
them  for  all  their  fatigues.  No  expression  of  sad- 
ness came  to  darken  the  young  wife's  features,  and 
she  never  allowed  herself  to  complain.  She  could 
always  appear  to  Luigi  with  a  smile  and  beaming 
eyes.  Both  fostered  one  predominant  thought  which 
would  have  helped  them  to  find  pleasure  in  the 
roughest  labor;  Ginevra  said  to  herself  that  she  was 
working  for  Luigi,  and  Luigi  for  Ginevra.  Some- 
times, in  her  husband's  absence,  the  young  wife 
would  think  of  the  perfect  happiness  that  she  might 
have  had,  if  this  life  of  love  had  been  spent  beside 
her  father  and  mother;  she  would  then  fall  into  a 


328  THE  VENDETTA 

deep  melancholy  in  experiencing  the  power  of  re- 
morse; gloomy  scenes  would  pass  like  shadows  in 
her  imagination;  she  would  see  her  old  father  alone, 
or  her  mother  crying  in  the  evenings  and  concealing 
her  tears  from  the  relentless  Piombo;  these  two 
white,  grave  heads  would  suddenly  uprise  before 
her,  and  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  was  never  to  see 
them  but  in  the  fantastic  light  of  memory.  This  idea 
haunted  her  like  a  presentiment.  She  celebrated 
the  anniversary  of  their  wedding  by  giving  her  hus- 
band a  portrait  he  had  often  wished  for,  that  of  his 
Ginevra.  Never  had  the  young  artist  produced 
anything  so  remarkable.  Apart  from  the  perfect 
likeness,  the  splendor  of  her  beauty,  the  purity  of 
her  feelings,  and  the  happiness  of  love,  were  there 
reproduced  as  if  by  magic.  The  masterpiece  was 
inaugurated.  They  passed  yet  another  year  in  the 
midst  of  plenty.  The  history  of  their  lives  could 
then  be  told  in  three  words:  THEY  WERE  HAPPY. 
No  event  worthy  of  interest  then  happened  to  them. 


* 


In  the  beginning  of  the  winter  of  1819,  the  picture 
dealers  advised  Ginevra  to  give  them  something 
else  than  copies,  for,  on  account  of  the  competition, 
they  could  no  longer  sell  them  at  a  profit.  Madame 
Porta  recognized  the  mistake  she  had  made  in  not 
practising  painting  genre  pictures  which  would  have 
gained  her  a  name,  and  she  undertook  to  paint 
portraits,  but  she  had  to  contend  against  a  crowd  of 
artists  still  less  rich  than  herself.  However,  as 
Luigi  and  Ginevra  had  saved  some  money,  they  did 
not  despair  of  the  future.  At  the  end  of  the  winter 
of  this  same  year,  Luigi  worked  without  intermis- 
sion. He  also  contended  against  competitors;  the 
price  of  copying  was  so  much  lower,  that  he  could 
no  longer  employ  anybody,  and  found  he  was 
obliged  to  devote  more  time  than  heretofore  to  his 
work  in  order  to  earn  the  same  amount. 

His  wife  had  finished  several  pictures  that  were 
not  without  merit;  but  the  dealers  scarcely  bought 
those  of  artists  of  reputation,  Ginevra  offered  them 
at  insignificant  prices  without  succeeding  in  selling 
them.  The  position  of  this  household  was  some- 
thing appalling;  the  souls  of  husband  and  wife  were 
full  of  happiness,  love  overwhelmed  them  with  its 
treasures,  and  poverty  rose  up  like  a  skeleton  in  the 
midst  of  this  harvest  of  pleasure,  and  they  hid  their 
anxieties  from  each  other.  At  the  time  when 
Ginevra  felt  herself  near  crying  at  seeing  her  Luigi 

(329) 


330  THE  VENDETTA 

suffer,  she  would  cover  him  with  caresses.  In  the 
same  way  Luigi  hid  a  gloomy  sorrow  in  his  heart 
when  expressing  the  tenderest  love  for  Ginevra. 
They  sought  compensation  for  their  misfortunes, 
in  the  exaltation  of  their  sentiment,  and  their 
words,  their  joys  and  their  amusements  were 
impregnated  with  a  kind  of  frenzy.  They  were 
afraid  for  the  future.  What  feeling  is  there  whose 
strength  can  be  compared  to  that  of  a  passion  that 
must  cease  on  the  morrow,  killed  by  death  or  by 
want?  When  they  spoke  of  their  poverty,  they 
felt  the  necessity  of  deceiving  one  another,  and 
seized  the  least  hope  with  equal  eagerness.  One 
night,  Ginevra  looked  in  vain  beside  her  for  Luigi, 
and  got  up  thoroughly  frightened.  A  faint  light 
reflected  on  the  dark  wall  of  the  little  courtyard  told 
her  that  her  husband  was  working  during  the  night. 
Luigi  would  wait  until  his  wife  was  asleep  before 
going  up  to  his  study.  Four  o'clock  struck,  Ginevra 
lay  down  again  and  pretended  to  be  asleep;  Luigi 
returned  overcome  with  fatigue  and  sleep,  and 
Ginevra  sorrowfully  gazed  at  the  beautiful  face 
which  was  already  furrowed  with  work  and  anxiety. 

"  It  is  for  my  sake  that  he  spends  the  nights 
writing,"  she  said,  crying. 

A  sudden  idea  dried  her  tears.  She  thought  she 
would  imitate  Luigi.  That  very  day,  she  went  to  a 
rich  dealer  in  engravings,  and,  by  the  help  of  a  letter 
of  recommendation  to  the  merchant,  given  her  by 
Elie  Magus,  one  of  her  picture  dealers,  she  obtained 
a  contract  for  coloring.    During  the  day,  she  painted 


THE  VENDETTA  331 

and  busied  herself  with  household  cares;  then, 
when  the  night  came,  she  colored  engravings.  So 
these  two  enamored  beings  only  sought  their  nuptial 
bed  to  leave  it.  Both  pretended  to  sleep,  and  from 
devotion  left  one  another  as  soon  as  each  had 
deceived  the  other.  One  night,  Luigi,  succumbing 
to  a  kind  of  fever  caused  by  the  heavy  work  under 
which  he  was  beginning  to  give  way,  opened  the 
window  of  his  study  to  inhale  the  pure  morning  air 
and  throw  off  his  sorrows,  when,  upon  lowering  his 
eyes,  he  saw  the  light  thrown  on  to  the  wall  by 
Ginevra's  lamp;  the  wretched  man  guessed  all,  he 
went  down,  stepping  softly,  and  surprised  his  wife 
in  the  midst  of  her  studio,  illuminating  engravings. 

"Oh!  Ginevra!"  he  cried. 

She  started  convulsively  in  her  chair  and  blushed. 

"  Could  1  sleep  whilst  you  were  exhausting  your- 
self with  fatigue?"  she  said. 

"  But  1  alone  have  the  right  to  work  in  this  way." 

"  How  could  1  remain  idle,"  replied  the  young 
wife,  the  tears  rising  to  her  eyes,  "when  I  know 
that  every  piece  of  bread  almost  costs  us  a  drop  of 
your  blood?  1  should  die  if  I  did  not  unite  my 
efforts  to  yours.  Shall  we  not  share  everything 
between  us,  pleasures  as  well  as  pains?" 

"She  is  cold!"  cried  Luigi  in  despair.  "Wrap 
your  shawl  closer  over  your  chest,  my  Ginevra; 
the  night  is  damp  and  cold." 

They  both  went  to  the  window,  the  young  wife 
leaning  her  head  on  her  beloved's  breast,  his  arm 
round    her   waist,    and    both,    buried   in   profound 


332  THE  VENDETTA 

silence,  looked  at  the  sky  that  the  dawn  was  slowly 
lighting.  Gray  shaded  clouds  quickly  succeeded 
each  other,  and  the  east  grew  lighter  and  lighter. 

"Do  you  see?"  said  Ginevra,  "it  is  an  omen; 
we  shall  be  happy." 

"Yes,  in  Heaven,"  answered  Luigi  with  a  bitter 
smile.  "  Oh!  Ginevra,  you  who  deserve  all  the 
treasures  of  the  earth — " 

"  I  have  your  heart,"  she  said  with  an  accent  of  joy. 

"Oh!  I  am  not  complaining,"  he  rejoined,  press- 
ing her  tightly  to  him.  And  he  kissed  the  delicate 
face  that  was  beginning  to  lose  the  bloom  of  youth, 
but  which  had  such  a  tender,  sweet  expression,  that 
he  never  could  look  at  it  without  being  comforted. 

"What  a  silence!"  said  Ginevra.  "Dear  one, 
I  find  great  pleasure  in  staying  up.  The  majesty  of 
night  is  indeed  infectious,  it  awes  and  inspires  one; 
there  is  an  indefinable  power  in  this  idea:  everyone 
is  asleep  and  1  watch." 

"Oh!  my  Ginevra,  to-day  is  not  the  first  time 
that  I  feel  how  delicately  graceful  your  mind  is! 
But  here  is  the  dawn;  come  and  sleep." 

"Yes,"  she  replied,  "  if  I  do  not  sleep  alone.  I 
did  suffer  the  night  I  found  my  Luigi  was  sitting  up 
without  me!" 

The  courage  with  which  these  two  young  people 
contended  against  misfortune  had  its  reward  for  a 
time;  but  the  event  which  nearly  always  crowns 
the  happiness  of  most  households  was  to  be  fatal  to 
them;  Ginevra  had  a  son,  who,  to  use  a  popular 
expression,  was  as  beautiful  as  the  day. 


THE  VENDETTA  333 

The  feeling  of  maternity  redoubled  the  youngwife's 
spirits.  Luigi  borrowed  to  provide  for  the  expenses  of 
Ginevra's  confinement.  So,  at  first,  she  did  not  feel 
all  the  discomfort  of  her  position,  and  husband  and 
wife  gave  themselves  up  to  the  happiness  of  rearing 
a  child.  It  was  their  last  happiness.  Like  two  swim- 
mers who  unite  their  efforts  to  break  a  current,  the 
two  Corsicans  at  first  struggled  bravely;  but  some- 
times they  yielded  to  an  apathy  similar  to  the  sleep 
which  precedes  death,  and  very  soon  they  were 
obliged  to  sell  their  jewels.  Poverty  suddenly  showed 
herself,  not  hideous,  but  simply  clothed,  and  almost 
easy  to  bear;  her  voice  had  nothing  terrifying,  she 
did  not  drag  despair,  or  spectres,  or  rags  after  her; 
but  she  drove  away  the  recollection  and  customs  of 
comfort;  she  wore  away  the  elasticity  of  pride. 
Then  came  misery  in  all  its  horror,  unmindful  of  its 
tatters,  and  trampling  human  feeling  under  foot. 
Seven  or  eight  months  after  the  birth  of  little 
Bartolomeo,  one  would  have  hardly  recognized  in  the 
mother  nursing  this  sickly  child,  the  original  of 
the  admirable  portrait,  the  only  ornament  of  a  bare 
room.  Without  fire  in  a  severe  winter,  Ginevra 
saw  the  graceful  outlines  of  her  face  slowly  fading, 
her  cheek  grew  as  white  as  porcelain,  and  her  eyes 
as  dim  as  if  the  springs  of  life  were  drying  up  within 
her.  Seeing  her  emaciated,  colorless  child,  she  only 
suffered  from  this  youthful  misery,  and  Luigi  no 
longer  had  the  heart  to  smile  at  his  son. 

"  I  have  been  all  over  Paris,"  he  said  in  a  hollow 
voice,  "1  know  nobody,  and  how  can  I  venture  to 


334  THE  VENDETTA 

ask  from  outsiders?  Vergniaud,  the  cow-keeper, 
my  old  gipsy,  is  implicated  in  a  conspiracy,  he  has 
been  put  in  prison,  and,  besides,  he  has  lent  me  all 
that  he  could  part  with.  As  to  our  landlord,  he  has 
asked  us  nothing  for  a  year." 

"  But  we  do  not  need  anything,"  replied  Ginevra 
gently,  assuming  a  calm  expression. 

"Every  day  that  comes  brings  more  difficulty," 
rejoined  Luigi  with  terror. 

Luigi  took  all  Ginevra's  pictures,  the  portrait,  and 
several  pieces  of  furniture  that  the  household  could 
still  go  without,  he  sold  them  all  for  a  small  sum,  and, 
for  a  little  time  the  amount  he  obtained  prolonged 
the  agony  of  the  family.  In  these  days  of  adversity, 
Ginevra  proved  the  sublimeness  of  her  character, 
and  the  extent  of  her  resignation,  she  bore  stoically 
the  attacks  of  misery;  her  energetic  mind  supported 
her  under  all  evils,  she  worked  with  faltering  hand 
beside  her  dying  son,  despatched  the  household 
duties  with  miraculous  activity,  and  attended  to 
everything.  She  even  felt  happy  again  when  she 
saw  Luigi's  smile  of  astonishment  at  sight  of  the 
cleanliness  that  prevailed  in  the  one  room  they  had 
taken  refuge  in. 

"  Sweetheart,  I  kept  this  piece  of  bread  for  you," 
she  said  to  him  one  night  when  he  came  in  tired. 

"  And  you?" 

"  I  have  had  dinner,  dear  Luigi,  I  do  not  want 
anything." 

And  the  sweet  expression  of  her  face  urged  him 
still  more  than  did  her  words  to  accept  the  food  of 


THE  VENDETTA  335 

which  she  was  depriving  herself.  Luigi  kissed  her 
with  one  of  those  despairing  kisses  that  were  given 
in  1793  by  friends  when  they  were  mounting  the 
scaffold  together.  At  these  supreme  moments,  two 
beings  see  each  other  heart  to  heart.  So  the 
wretched  Luigi,  suddenly  understanding  that  his 
wife  was  starving,  shared  in  the  fever  that  was 
devouring  her;  he  shivered,  and  went  out  on  the 
pretext  of  pressing  business,  for  he  would  rather 
have  taken  the  deadliest  poison  than  shirk  death  by 
eating  the  last  piece  of  bread  they  had.  He  pro- 
ceeded to  wander  about  Paris,  amongst  the  most 
brilliant  carriages,  in  the  midst  of  the  taunting 
luxury  that  blazes  everywhere;  he  quickly  passed 
by  the  shops  of  the  money-changers  where  the  gold 
was  glistening;  he  finally  resolved  to  sell  himself, 
to  offer  himself  as  a  substitute  for  military  service, 
hoping  that  this  sacrifice  might  save  Ginevra,  and 
that,  during  his  absence,  Bartolomeo  might  take 
her  into  favor  again.  So  he  went  to  find  one  of 
those  men  who  carry  on  the  white  slave  trade,  and 
he  felt  a  kind  of  happiness  in  recognizing  an  old 
officer  of  the  Imperial  Guard. 

"I  have  eaten  nothing  for  two  days,"  he  said  to 
him  in  a  slow,  weak  voice,  "  my  wife  is  dying  of 
hunger  and  never  complains  to  me,  I  believe  she 
would  die  smiling.  For  pity's  sake,  my  friend," 
he  added  with  a  bitter  smile,  "  buy  me  in  advance, 
I  am  strong,  I  am  no  longer  in  the  service,  and  I — " 

The  officer  gave  Luigi  a  sum  on  account  of  the 
amount  he  undertook  to  procure.     The  poor  wretch 


336  THE  VENDETTA 

laughed  convulsively  when  he  held  a  handful  of 
gold  coins,  he  ran  with  all  his  might  to  his  house, 
breathless,  and  crying  from  time  to  time: 

"Oh!  Ginevra!  my  Ginevra!" 

It  was  growing  dusk  when  he  reached  home.  He 
entered  softly,  for  fear  of  giving  his  wife,  whom  he 
had  left  very  weak,  too  great  a  shock.  The  sun's 
last  rays  in  penetrating  through  the  window  expired 
on  Ginevra's  face,  she  was  asleep,  sitting  in  a  chair 
with  her  child  upon  her  bosom. 

"Wake  up,  my  heart,"  he  said,  without  noticing 
the  position  of  the  child,  who  was  at  that  moment 
extraordinarily  bright. 

Hearing  his  voice,  the  poor  mother  opened  her 
eyes,  met  Luigi's  look  and  smiled;  but  Luigi  give  a 
cry  of  dismay;  he  hardly  recognized  his  wife,  who 
became  half  crazy  when,  with  a  gesture  of  fierce 
energy  he  showed  her  the  gold.  Ginevra  began  to 
laugh  mechanically,  and  all  of  a  sudden  she  cried  in 
a  terrible  voice: 

"  Louis,  the  child  is  cold!" 

She  looked  at  her  son  and  fainted;  the  little  Bar- 
thelemy  was  dead. 

Luigi  took  his  wife  in  his  arms,  without  removing 
the  child  whom  she  held  clasped  with  extraordinary 
strength;  and,  after  having  laid  her  on  the  bed,  he 
went  out  to  call  for  help. 

"Oh!  mon  Dieu!"  he  said  to  his  landlord,  whom 
he  met  on  the  stairs,  "  I  have  gold  and  my  child  is 
dead  of  hunger!  his  mother  is  dying,  help  us!" 

He  returned  like  a  madman  to  his  wife,  and  left 


THE  VENDETTA  337 

the  honest  mason  busy,  with  several  neighbors 
collecting  all  that  might  mitigate  a  state  of  misery 
which,  till  then,  had  remained  unknown,  so  care- 
fully had  the  two  Corsicans  hid  it,  through  a  feeling 
of  pride.  Luigi  had  thrown  his  gold  upon  the  floor, 
and  was  kneeling  at  the  head  of  the  bed  where  his 
wife  was  lying. 

"Father,  take  care  of  my  son,  he  bears  your 
name!"  cried  Ginevra  in  her  delirium. 

"  Oh!  my  angel,  be  still,"  said  Luigi,  kissing 
her;  "  happy  days  are  in  store  for  us." 

This  voice  and  caress  restored  her  to  some  degree 
of  tranquillity. 

"  Oh  !  my  Louis!"  she  replied  looking  at  him  with 
strange  fixity,  "  listen  well  to  me.  1  feel  that  I  am 
dying.  My  death  is  natural,  I  suffered  too  much, 
and  then  so  great  a  happiness  as  mine  had  to  be 
paid  for.  Yes,  my  Luigi,  be  comforted.  I  have 
been  so  happy,  that,  if  I  were  to  begin  life  again,  I 
should  still  accept  our  destiny.  I  am  a  bad  mother; 
I  regret  you  still  more  than  I  regret  the  child —  My 
child!"  she  added  in  a  deep  voice. 

Two  tears  fell  from  her  dying  eyes,  and  she  sud- 
denly pressed  the  corpse  that  she  had  not  been  able 
to  warm. 

"  Give  my  hair  to  my  father,  in  memory  of  his 
Ginevra,"  she  continued.  "Tell  him  that  1  never 
accused  him — "  ^ 

Her  head  fell  back  upon  her  husband's  arm. 

"No!  you  must  not  die!"  cried  Luigi.  "The 
doctor  is  coming.  We  have  bread.  Your  father 
22 


338  THE  VENDETTA 

will   forgive  you.     Prosperity  has  dawned  for  us. 
Stay  with  us,  angel  of  beauty!" 

But  the  faithful,  loving  heart  was  growing  cold. 
Ginevra  instinctively  turned  her  eyes  toward  him 
whom  she  adored,  though  she  was  conscious  of 
nothing;  confused  images  clouded  her  spirit,  about 
to  lose  all  recollection  of  this  earth.  She  knew  that 
Luigi  was  there,  for  she  tightened  her  hold  of  his 
icy  hand,  and  seemed  as  if  she  wanted  to  cling 
above  a  precipice  that  she  thought  she  was  falling 
into. 

"  Sv/eetheart,"  she  said  at  last,  "you  are  cold,  I 
will  warm  you." 

She  tried  to  put  her  husband's  hand  upon  her 
heart,  and  she  died. 

Two  doctors,  a  priest,  and  the  neighbors  came 
in  just  then,  bringing  all  that  was  necessary  to 
save  the  husband  and  wife  and  quiet  their  despair. 
At  first,  the  strangers  made  a  great  noise;  but, 
when  they  came  in,  a  ghastly  silence  reigned  in  the 
room. 

Whilst  this  scene  was  taking  place,  Bartolomeo 
and  his  wife  were  sitting  in  their  old-fashioned  arm- 
chairs, each  in  a  corner  of  the  huge  fireplace,  in 
which  the  glowing  fire  was  hardly  sufficient  to  warm 
the  immense  drawing-room  of  their  house.  The 
clock  pointed  to  midnight.  For  a  long  time  the  old 
couple  had  been  unable  to  sleep.  At  this  moment, 
they  were  as  silent  as  two  old  people  who  had  fallen 
into  their  dotage,  and  who  look  at  everything  and 
see  nothing.     Their   empty  drawing-room,  full  of 


THE  VENDETTA  339 

memories  for  them,  was  dimly  lighted  by  a  single 
lamp  on  the  verge  of  going  out.  But  for  the  flicker- 
ing firelight,  they  would  have  been  in  perfect  dark- 
ness. One  of  their  friends  had  just  left  them,  and 
the  chair  upon  which  he  had  been  sitting  during  his 
visit  was  between  the  two  Corsicans.  Piombo  had 
already  looked  more  than  once  at  this  chair,  and  his 
thoughtful  glances  chased  each  other  like  the  stings 
of  remorse,  for  the  empty  chair  was  Ginevra's. 
Elisa  Piombo  watched  the  expressions  passing  over 
her  husband's  white  face.  Although  she  was  accus- 
tomed to  guessing  the  Corsican's  feeling  according 
to  the  changing  motions  of  his  features,  they  were 
alternately  so  threatening  and  so  sorrowful,  that  she 
could  not  read  this  unfathomable  mind. 

Was  Bartolomeo  yielding  to  the  powerful  memories 
awakened  by  this  chair?  Was  he  shocked  to  see 
that  a  stranger  had  used  it  for  the  first  time  since 
his  daughter's  departure?  Had  the  hour  of  his 
mercy  sounded,  that  hour  so  vainly  awaited  until 
now? 

These  reflections  in  turn  agitated  Elisa  Piombo's 
heart.  For  a  moment  her  husband's  face  became 
so  terrible  that  she  trembled  at  having  dared  make 
use  of  so  simple  an  artifice  to  create  an  opportunity 
to  speak  of  Ginevra.  Just  then  the  blast  swept 
the  snowflakes  so  violently  against  the  shutters  that 
the  old  couple  could  hear  its  light  rustle.  Ginevra's 
mother  lowered  her  head  to  hide  her  tears  from  her 
husband.  Suddenly  a  sigh  burst  from  the  old  man's 
bosom;  his  wife  looked  at  him,  he  had  broken  down; 


340  THE  VENDETTA 

she  ventured,  for  the  second  time  in  three  years,  to 
speak  to  him  of  his  daughter. 

"  If  Ginevra  were  cold!"  she  cried  softly. 

Piombo  started. 

"  Perhaps  she  is  hungry!"  she  continued. 

The  Corsican  shed  a  tear. 

"  She  has  a  child  and  cannot  nurse  it,  her  milk  is 
dry,"  resumed  the  mother  eagerly  in  an  accent  of 
despair. 

"  Let  her  come!  let  her  come!"  cried  Piombo, 
"Oh!  my  darling  child!  you  have  conquered  me!" 

The  mother  rose  as  if  to  go  and  seek  her  child. 
At  that  moment  the  door  opened  with  a  crash,  and 
a  man  whose  face  was  no  longer  human  suddenly 
appeared  before  them. 

"Dead! — Our  two  families  had  to  exterminate 
each  other,  for  there  is  all  that  remains  of  her,"  he 
said,  laying  Ginevra's  long,  black  hair  upon  the 
table. 

The  old  couple  shuddered  as  if  they  had  been 
struck  by  lightning,  and  no  longer  saw  Luigi. 

"  He  spares  us  a  shot,  for  he  is  dead!"  cried  Bar- 
tolomeo  slowly,  looking  down  upon  the  ground. 

Paris,  January,  1830. 


LIST  OF    ETCHINGS 


VOLUME  XII 

PAGB 

M.  GU1LLAUA\E  AND  THEODORE Fronts. 

THE  DUCHESSE  AND  AUGUSTINE 88 

IN  THE  RUE  DE  LA  PAIX l68 

THE  BARONNE  DE  ROUVILLE,  ADELAIDE  AND   HIP- 

POLYTE 185 

A\.  SERVIN'S  STUDIO 266 


12  N.  R.,  Cat  341 


Cv! 


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